


Making Reparations

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Diplomatic Relations [2]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Blow Jobs, Commitment, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Post-War, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-02-05 12:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12794121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Izaya huffs a breath. 'Maybe I don’t want to get better,' he says, and twists away to look out the window again." Izaya is sure he's come to terms with the conclusion of the war, but his resignation is shaken by the arrival of visitors he knows better than he expected.





	1. Perform

Izaya closes the book open before him with more force than the gesture requires, moving fast so the action will  _thud_  hard against the table he’s leaning over and rattle against the floor. The sound is satisfying, weighty enough that he can feel it all down the length of his spine and aching against the tops of his legs, and he couples it immediately with shoving back from the desk in front of him so he can topple backwards against the support of the chair he’s sitting in with an overloud huff of an exhale from his lips.

“This is  _boring_ ,” he sighs, speaking loudly so the words will carry even as he tips his head to gaze out the window at his elbow. “Who wants to read about old trading routes and foreign imports?”

“You did.” The voice is as clear as Izaya’s own, albeit far colder with a lack of the irritation Izaya is feeling himself. Izaya cuts his gaze sideways to look at the speaker, just in case she’s giving him even a cursory glance; but Namie’s eyes are fixed on the documents before her, and she doesn’t look like she’s moved in long minutes. Izaya wonders if she so much as twitched when he slammed the book shut. “A half hour ago you were insisting that you wanted that specific book and nothing else would do.”

“A lot can change in a half hour,” Izaya informs her. “It’s not as interesting as I remembered it being.”

“Nothing is as interesting as you remember it being,” Namie says, still in that chill tone that admits no more irritation than interest. Izaya might as well be speaking to the wall for all the sympathy he’s likely to find from his current audience. “It’s not the fault of the library that you can’t keep yourself entertained.”

Izaya scoffs hard in the back of his throat. “Of course,” he says, sarcasm dripping like poison off the words. “I have an absolutely  _endless_  array of options with which to occupy my time.”

Namie reaches out without looking to dip her pen into the ink bottle set before her. “You could always do your exercises.”

Izaya grimaces. “I don’t want to,” he declares. “They  _hurt_.”

“They’re not supposed to be pleasant,” Namie tells him. “You’ll never get better if you don’t exert yourself.”

Izaya huffs a breath. “Maybe I don’t want to get better,” he says, and twists away to look out the window again. The day is overcast, the sky grey but not yet entirely committed to the thought of rain; it’s enough to strip the brightest edge of color from the grounds below, but with autumn advancing on the greenery of summer the view is still striking as every leaf in sight shifts itself towards scarlet red and coppery orange, as if in celebration of the cold to come. It would be a beautiful sight, Izaya thinks, if he hadn’t spent the last month gazing out at the exact same setting. “I could become a tragic figure instead: a prince wasting away in his lonely tower, forgotten by life and the world alike.”

“It would never work,” Namie says. Her tone is unflinching; it’s like a blow to crack and scatter through the idle structure of Izaya’s imagination. “You have to elicit sympathy to be tragic.”

Izaya tips his head to glare back over his shoulder at Namie. She still doesn’t bother looking at him. “I  _am_  sympathetic.”

“No you’re not,” Namie tells him. “You lost a duel that you asked for yourself and lost your country’s war in the process, and now you’re refusing to get better so you can keep playing the invalid card.”

“I’m in  _pain_ ,” Izaya snaps. “I’m not  _playing_  anything, that’s just truth.”

“You’d be in less of it if you stopped casting yourself dramatically into chairs,” Namie says with a complete lack of sympathy. “If it hurts you to cross your legs just stop doing it. It’s not as if you’re making yourself better with it.”

Izaya’s fingers tighten to the start of a fist where his hand is resting against the top of his thigh. He can feel the ache of the position running all the way down his leg to the back of his spine, can feel the dull hurt of it in the back of his teeth like the pressure of a bone-deep bruise he can’t stop pressing against. “I’m not interested in getting better.”

“Obviously,” Namie says; and then she drops her quill into the inkpot with finality, and lifts her head at last to look Izaya full in the face. “Why are you doing it then?” There’s no sympathy in her expression, no warmth in her eyes; even the question has the weight of rhetoric to it, as if she’s leading Izaya towards an answer she already full well knows the truth of.

Izaya looks away again, turning his head towards the leaves outside without really seeing them as he takes a breath and lifts his voice into his most offhand lilt. “You know, of course. It’s my punishment.”

“For  _what_ ,” Namie says, and she’s not even making an attempt to frame the words as a question, now. “We were losing the war anyway. If there’s anything you can thank yourself for it’s ending things before we lost even more of our people. You didn’t even have to give up your life for it, I’d think you’d be at least a  _little_  happy about that.”

Izaya doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have words to offer in response to Namie’s not-quite question, for one thing; but for another his throat is closing up, his teasing tone stripped from him with the memories Namie’s words drag up from the shadows of the past. The glint of sunlight off a combat-dulled blade, the skid of mud under his feet, the weight of armor hanging heavy against numb shoulders; the dark of a shadow falling over him, the thud of footsteps thudding like thunder against the ground below. Everything is fractured, his memory broken and disjoint around the adrenaline of the moment, around the physical pain that settled in to drag his consciousness away and under in the moments after; but Izaya can remember too clearly the one image, clear as a picture, more vivid than the colors of the trees outside and more painful than the ache in his crossed legs, as he looked up to see the shadow of violence flicker out like a candle, as the destruction looming over him disintegrated into familiar features, a shocked-soft mouth, dark eyes going wide with the weight of realization. The image is too clear too shake, too pristine to ignore; and then, from behind him, Namie speaks again.

“Or do you just want to cling to whatever you have left of your ogre prince?”

Izaya looks away from the window and turns deliberately to consider the table before him instead. There’s very little on it: a glass of water on the far edge, all but untouched since it was set there by the servant who helped move him here this morning, and the book he slammed shut, with the weight of it solid and promising in front of him. It’s the book Izaya reaches for, bracing his fingers tight against the spine as he hefts the weight of it; and then he twists in his chair, and throws it directly towards Namie sitting on the other side of the room writing. The pages catch the air as the book arcs towards her and the resistance of the wind swings it off-course; in the end all Namie has to do is tip herself slightly to the side to let the book fly past her shoulder and into the wall behind her instead. She finishes the sentence she was writing and deliberately reaches out to set her pen into the inkwell again before she pushes back from the table and gets to her feet to collect the book.

“These are valuable works,” she says, her tone still so cool even the chastisement is barely audible as she smoothes the pages of the book into place between the covers. “They’re not intended for use as weapons.”

“I’m still prince,” Izaya tells her, letting himself fall back to the support of the chair behind him as he tosses his hair back from his face. “If I want to throw every book in the library I can.”

“That’s one way to spite the Boscans,” Namie says as she walks to the shelves to return the book to its rightful place. “Childish, but I hardly expect anything else from you.”

Izaya elects to ignore this. “Bring me the next volume,” he says, lifting his hand from the arm of his chair to gesture vaguely towards the shelf Namie is standing before. “Maybe it’ll be more interesting than the first one was.”

Namie doesn’t turn around. “I’m a doctor, not your nursemaid.”

Izaya frowns at her shoulders. “You’re my  _subject_ ,” he says. “I can’t get it myself.”

“Don’t try to guilt me into pity,” Namie says, turning back from the bookshelf and returning to her desk to collect the notes she was making into a neat stack. “You can walk perfectly well if you put your mind to it. It’ll be better for you to make the effort anyway.”

“ _Namie_ ,” Izaya snaps. “Just bring me the book.”

“I’ll send a servant in to look after you,” Namie says as she straightens with her things in her arms. “You could ask them to take you back to bed, if you’d prefer to play the invalid role more convincingly. I’ll see who I can find after I’m done filing my notes.” And she’s turning towards the door, reaching to pull it open and slip out into the hallway without so much as looking back at Izaya still sitting by the window.

“Namie,” Izaya says. “ _Namie_.” But the door is swinging shut, and he knows too well that shouting is unlikely to achieve anything more than pulling a satisfied smile onto Namie’s face. So he sets his jaw, and he leans back in his chair, and he contents himself with frowning at the door. It’s only after long, quiet minutes have passed to prove Izaya’s isolation that he ducks his head and looks down at his crossed legs. He stares at the dark fabric covering them, at the elegant drapery of cloth to make even this aesthetically pleasing, even as he feels his muscles aching with every breath he takes; and then he lifts his hands, and reaches to brace himself against the arms of his chair so he can shift his crossed legs.

The pain hits immediately. There’s a dull ache already halfway up his spine, a throb humming in the back of his thoughts at a level where he can almost ignore it, if he tries. It’s a comfort to have it there, a relief to have the distraction; at least it gives him something else to focus on, in the event that his mind wanders down paths he’d rather not tread metaphorically any more than he can physically. But uncrossing his half-numb legs awakens a flare of hurt in him, a scream of pain from underused muscles protesting this sudden action, and if the distraction is welcome in miniature it’s overwhelming in full, when the surge of it is cresting up to sweep out and eclipse Izaya’s awareness. For a moment his vision flickers out, for a moment he can’t catch his breath; his fingers seize tight on the arms of his chair, his shoulders hunch in as if to protect against some unseen blow. He struggles for a breath, scrambling blind for coherency; and then the pain starts to ebb, slowly, easing back from that first overwhelming surge until it’s only a tremor of hurt running through him with every beat of his heart, until it’s just a flush of pain running along his spine with every motion he takes.

Izaya sets his jaw, loosening his cramping grip on the arms of his chair to flex some warmth back into his fingers; and then he sets his palms hard against the smooth-polished wood, and he pushes up against the support. It takes effort; his arms are still lacking their full strength, even if the broken bones in his wrist have been allowed the time to mend that has done nothing for the fire-bright pain in his legs. As his weight presses down Izaya can feel a jolt of protest from his shoulder, where the joint still twinges with any too-sudden motion; but the pain is nothing, it’s a cup of water next to the sea compared to the agony radiating in a wave from his half-numb legs. His knees unbend as he moves, the joints stinging sharply as gravity does what he can’t force his willpower to in urging his legs towards straight; Izaya holds himself there for a moment, feeling his arms tremble with the effort of supporting himself but still waiting to act, still stalling short of the final effort to get to his feet. He stares fixedly at the wall in front of him, feels his jaw aching as he braces himself steady; and then he pushes himself up, and lets his weight come forward to press against the support of his feet.

The pain is immediate. It’s blinding, it’s radiant, it spills up his legs and surges along his spine and washes his vision to white at the same time it tenses across the whole line of his shoulders. Izaya hears himself hiss a sound of reflexive reaction, hears the catch of it in the back of his throat even muffled past tight-clenched teeth; and then he blinks hard, and locks his knees under him, and forces himself back to clarity as much via an application of will as anything else. His grip on the arms of his chair eases, his hands draw up and away from the support; and for a moment Izaya is standing upright, his shaky legs supporting his weight for at least the span of this breath. He’s staring right at the door, at the solid weight that serves as proof of his lack of audience; but it might as well be the garden on the far side of the window for how easily he can reach it, for how impossibly far away it is. The book is entirely out of the question; it would take him fifteen minutes before he could trust his feet to bear him forward without sending him sprawling to the floor, and it was hardly something he truly cared about to begin it. It was the distraction he sought, the pull at his attention to urge it to something other than the path of his shadowed-over memory; and if it’s distraction he needs, the pain of forcing his injured legs to bear his weight is more than enough to pull his thoughts elsewhere. There’s a flicker of memory: candelight on gold hair, the rich taste of blood-red wine, a snort of laughter as warm and startling as sunlight on a stormy day; but Izaya shifts his weight, and locks his knees, and whatever was trying to surface scatters to the force of the pain that surges through him from his much-abused and little-used legs. The agony starts tears at his eyes, and hiccups his breath in his throat; but with Namie gone there’s no one to see him, and as long as the door stays shut Izaya can be sure he will remain alone.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. There’s only one person whose attention he has really ever wanted, and Izaya has long since absented himself from that stage.


	2. Corporeal

Izaya never used to notice how complex the process of getting dressed is.

It didn’t used to occupy his attention, before. It was an easy thing, something he could do without thinking, while in the middle of planning some future conversation or turning over a past interaction in his memory; the details of putting on a shirt, pants, coat, gloves, all of that was trivial, so simple and automatic that he could act on autopilot to dress himself for all but the most formal of occasions. But his loss of mobility has resulted in far more than just the inconvenience of movement, and Izaya thinks, sometimes, the worst of it is getting dressed.

It’s better now than it used to be. In the first few weeks he needed a pair of servants just to help him get his shirt on, much less make an attempt at anything more formal; his relief when he finally regained the use of his arms was as much for the freedom to dress himself without an audience as for the sign of healing in his constantly aching body. He’s refused any offers of help ever since, even before his arms were anything like strong enough to truly manage the awkward effort of getting pants on his damaged legs; he doesn’t want to have eyes on him when the pain hits, when he moves his knee unwarily or shifts his weight accidentally and is left gasping past the start of tears as he waits for the hurt to pass. It’s better to suffer that alone, to know that if nothing else at least there is no one to see his composure stripped from him in those moments of helpless vulnerability; even if it makes getting himself dressed an hour-long ordeal, it’s still better, Izaya thinks, to have the privacy he wins by the effort.

There’s more to the process, today. Often Izaya gives over the struggle to attend meals at all; he still has the sympathy of the castle, even if he can feel it ebbing away with every day that passes, and that means he can lean on pity to develop a habit that will be too entrenched to break by the time he’s used up the store of patient goodwill his injuries purchased for him. It’s easier to eat in his quarters alone, even if the silence makes the hours drag longer than they might otherwise; and in his own room he doesn’t need any more than the loose pants he wears through most of the days and a shirt he can leave untucked and unlaced. He sleeps in that too, as often as not, just to save himself the effort of changing into something more; but he can’t get away with hiding in his room today, even if the prospect of the meeting to come is more than enough motivation to keep him in seclusion. He is still the prince of the realm, however much power Numora may have lost along with his own mobility; and that means he has to at least make an appearance to greet their foreign visitors.

He tries not to think about it. Numora has had very little to do politically since the conclusion of the war; their position is unfortunately akin to a child whose independence has been stripped by an irate parent, and that fact must be clear to any of the neighboring countries who might otherwise reach out to them. Numora is disgraced, powerless, as helpless to defend herself as Izaya is to reliably stand on his own two feet; under the circumstances any negotiations would of course be directed towards the country standing triumphant from the recent war. Numora has been left to her own devices, free to lick her wounds and slink back into something like recovery, however crippled she may be; and that has left Izaya as a free agent himself, stripped of his power and any real value he once had as a political figure. The thought would have stung in other times, in other places; right now it feels like a relief, to be left alone to linger in the shadows without having to face up to any of the curious eyes that might otherwise seek him out. Izaya has been grateful to the quiet, mostly; but if Numora gave up her political power with her loss, she also gave up her ability to refuse a visit from exactly those people least wanted within her borders. Numora is owned, now, to all intents and purposes, however politely the peace treaty may have framed it; and that means she has to put on a smile and a show for her master, including offering up the official appearance of the disgraced prince.

Izaya takes his time with his preparations. He doesn’t have to; he suspects the nameless visitors will be as pleased to see him in disarray as otherwise, suspects there might be some dark satisfaction for them in being able to carry a report of his utter defeat back over the borders of the country Izaya has done his best to entirely forget about. But he still has his own pride, after all, even if that is all he has left to him; he has only ever ceded that for one person, and he’s not about to give it up for anything less. That thought is too close to danger, skirting too near those memories Izaya can’t indulge in as much from their brilliance as from their shadows; he has to lock his knees again to send them scattering, to distract his attention from the recollection of past via the pain of the present. The effort leaves him gasping, leaves his heart racing and his hands shaking; but his mind is clear again, at least, and when he looks down to tuck his pristine shirt into his pants it’s with his attention firmly fixed on only and precisely that action, without any wandering from the point at hand even so far as to consider the nationality of the visitors waiting below.

His outfit is relatively simple. The fabrics are expensive, of course; it won’t do to appear as a petitioner, after all, none of the Numoran citizens have any intent to grovel, even to the country standing triumphant over them for now. So his pants are well-tailored, his shoes are polished to mirror brightness, and his shirt is of the thinnest silk, draped to hang over his shoulders and close against his wrists with an elegance that Izaya knows gives him something of the look of a marble statue. But it’s still just a white shirt, with none of the embroidery or brocade he has borne before, and when he reaches for his vest it’s a simple thing too, in a red so saturated it looks nearly black and only the tiniest touch of embroidery marking out the V of the neck. Izaya shrugs it on over his shirt, and buttons it up slowly so he can make sure it stays smooth over his waist and hips; and then he lifts his head, and he considers his final appearance in the reflection of his mirror.

He looks different than he used to. His legs are a little thinner, he’s lost some of even the lean muscle he used to carry to his pain-enforced stillness; but his clothes fit well enough to hide that fact, to make him look perhaps a little taller instead of thinner. But there’s still a difference, and more than just the deliberate simplicity of his outfit; it’s in the set of his feet, the way his legs are braced out to awkward stability and the way the lines at the corners of his mouth are creased in as if to show the effect of too many frowns over the past months. Izaya frowns again, now, grimacing at the shadows of his reflection; and he lifts his chin, and dips his lashes, and angles his shoulders back. If he shifts his arms he can gain some measure of elegance, can snatch at the illusion of grace; but in the end his footing is still unsteady, and there’s nothing he can do about the quiver in his legs or the slowness of his steps. He can’t hide all the effects of the war on his body, however much he’d like to; but then, this is only the welcoming ceremony, and no one is likely to be particularly interested in him. He is meant to make an appearance, to give the visitors what satisfaction they may gather from seeing his lingering injuries while demonstrating Numora’s pride via his composure; all he really has to do is walk into the room and stand still through the length of the formal greeting. It’s more than manageable, even if he struggles through it; Izaya thinks he’d be willing to make the walk on broken legs if he had to just to prove this point.

There’s a servant waiting for him when he pushes open the door to his room. Izaya has long since told the servants he neither requires nor desires their aid in dressing; but if he has lost an immediate audience that doesn’t divest him of the need for a chaperone to make it over the distance to the main hall. Izaya hates the need for it -- he’d rather struggle over the distance himself, if he could -- but he can’t, and after the effort of dressing he’s embarrassingly glad for the support of the strong arm the servant offers him to lean against. The other doesn’t speak, at least; that’s some blessing, even if Izaya can hardly pretend the woman isn’t there when he’s leaning hard against her for every step. At least he  _is_  walking at all, at least he’s being spared the necessity of being carried into the hall like a child; it’s cold comfort, when every step saps him of more strength and puts him in more danger of outright collapse, but Izaya has learned to make do with what pleasures he can find.

It’s not far to the main hall. That’s another change, and not a positive one by Izaya’s standards; his old quarters at the height of the tower he once claimed for his own now stand empty, with their view of the palace grounds left unused and unappreciated. But the winding staircase is well beyond his capacity to handle now, as indeed most stairs are; the few short paths to the dining hall are about the limit of his ability, if he doesn’t wish to ask openly to be carried from place to place. At least he can make it at all; Izaya has more than enough awareness of his own inferiority coming for him tonight, he’d rather not give up what confidence he can retain before he’s even entered the room. So he pushes himself to walk as much on his own as he can, and he keeps his head held high, and as the servant leads him up towards the doors to the dining hall Izaya pushes himself entirely upright, withdrawing his hold on the other with the excuse of tugging his vest straight over his hips.

“You may announce me,” he says, speaking as coolly as if he’s only just meeting the woman before the doors instead of concluding an interaction of some minutes. It might be something worth laughing at, from someone else; but Izaya is still prince, after all, and the servant just ducks her head in understanding and steps forward to push the doors open. Izaya sighs an exhale, and lets his shoulders ease down from the wound-in tension in them; and he steps forward, moving slowly in the servant’s wake so he can make his entrance seem more regal than clumsy.

The room is full already. Izaya lacks the desire and strength to stay on his feet and make polite small talk for long; his timing means that he is all but the last to arrive, just before the ceremony is to begin, and means that the guests aren’t looking for any further arrivals. Izaya takes the first few steps into the room unwatched, unnoticed; and it’s just as he’s stepping past the servant and lifting his head in anticipation of the announcement that he sees their visitors.

There are several of them. They’re all dressed alike, in the blues and silvers favored by their country for all official occasions; surrounded by the formal dark of the Numorans, they are as easy to pick out at a glance by their clothing as by their unfamiliar faces. It’s a group of delegates, diplomats and politicians that Izaya has met before and could likely put a name to, if he cared to make the effort; but that knowledge flickers and is gone as fast as it appears, it scatters like leaves in a winter come early, because Izaya’s gaze is catching at tied-back yellow hair, is drawing up over broad shoulders and long legs and all the embroidery that can be fit on the span of a travelling coat, and all the breath in his body leaves him in a rush as his eyes come up and his gaze locks full with Shizuo’s stare.

For a moment everything is still. Izaya is standing in the entrance to the dining room, his shaky legs braced under him to hold him upright as he waits for the servant to announce his arrival to the room; and Shizuo is halfway across the dining hall from him, a glass of wine in his hand and his whole body half-turned towards Izaya as if the other’s appearance was some kind of a signal for him. Shizuo’s expression is soft, shocked out of any tension or discomfort he might have been carrying; his lips are half-parted, his eyes are wide, his full attention is pinned to Izaya’s face. Izaya’s memory reels, the expression on Shizuo’s face too familiar for him to duck away from; and for a moment he’s months in the past, standing in an unfamiliar corridor with a candle in his hand and Shizuo staring at him with the same complete, unmitigated shock that is in his expression now. Izaya’s heart skips, his breath catches in his chest; and then Shizuo blinks, and opens his mouth, and Izaya is turning, twisting so hard and so suddenly that his trembling legs nearly give way from under him to drop him precipitously to the floor. He throws out a hand to catch himself and manages to grab hold of the doorhandle to stall his collapse; one knee hits the floor, his shoe skids against the polished wood, but he’s pulling before he feels the pain, jerking himself upright by all the strength in his arm so he can stumble forward and back out of the room. Behind him there’s a rush of sound as dozens of guests exclaim shock, as the servant cuts off her announcement with a sharp sound of surprise; but Izaya is moving, is half-falling into a painful, limping run down the hallway, because all his pride and all his preparation didn’t make room for this.

After so many months spent trying to forget that voice, Izaya can’t stand to hear the sound of the name he saw forming at Shizuo’s lips.


	3. Tension

Izaya can’t stay.

He doesn’t go back. There are calls for him, shouts from the still-open doors he left in the wake of his precipitous departure, and then the sound of footsteps as the servant turns to chase after him; but Izaya just lifts a hand when the woman talks, waving sharply to urge her away without trying to find words, and she obeys him, even as Izaya’s steps limp and stagger under the force of the adrenaline surging through him and the exhaustion of too-much effort on underused muscles. Izaya would be grateful, under other circumstances, would be relieved that his royal position still counts for enough to buy him the obedience of servants in his own home, even if it’s good for nothing else; but he doesn’t think about it, barely even notices the other’s obedience for how dizzily his thoughts are whirling.

He hasn’t thought about it. It’s been months, long, painful weeks of lying still in bed consumed by boredom only broken up by the effort of motion that is nearly as bad, in its own way, as the stillness is. Every time Izaya shifts his legs he can feel the pain like a reminder, every twinge from his shoulder or slow-healing wrist is an echo of the past; and still he has looked aside, has fixed his vision unseeing on the gardens he never visits, anymore, or has lost himself in the text of a book open before him, or has leaned harder into the hurt, when he can’t distract himself from it, has whited out his memories and scattered the shadows of the past by the immediate agony of the present. He’s absented himself from politics, has pled the weight of injuries to keep him away from the negotiation of the peace treaty and the discussion that followed after; he’s all but stripped the word  _Boscan_  from his life, and has entirely lost the name of that country’s prince except in the dreams he can’t yet crush out of existence. But now they’re here, the visitors and the memories and Shizuo himself, present and real and more overwhelming even in a glance than any of Izaya’s memories could prepare him for. Izaya can feel himself trembling, can feel his whole body quivering as if he’s a bell rung too hard, as if his memories are too much for his half-healed body to bear; but he keeps moving, stumbling down the hallways before him without seeing them as if he will somehow manage to outrun the past.

He can’t. Of course he can’t; he has barely been able to hide from his memories over all these months, the possibility of erasing them with the awareness of Shizuo’s presence here, in his country, in his home, in his  _life_  is hopeless before it begins. Izaya’s memory is rushing over him, hammering his heart to overtime and stealing his breath to sharp, panting gasps as he struggles down the hallway; and with every step he takes he skips back into the past, with every gasp of a breath his vision flickers with memory. Shizuo frowning, Shizuo shouting, Shizuo grinning; the press of a fist to Izaya’s shirt, broad shoulders crowding him against a wall as if to push him through it, dark eyes dragging over his face as if with an intent to drink him like a libation. The flash of Shizuo’s unthinking smile, the bright, startling warmth of his laugh; but more, too, all the things Izaya doesn’t want to remember, all the details that haunted his dreams even while he still retained the use of his yet-whole body. The grate of rejection in Shizuo’s throat, the cold enough to steal the warmth from his gaze and leave his stare nothing more than a blow; the back of his shoulders, turning away with finality to make a wall Izaya couldn’t scale, couldn’t break, couldn’t hope to beseige. An upraised sword, combat-dented armor, eyes that looked right through Izaya like he wasn’t even there; and Izaya wishes, now, as he has wished before, that Shizuo had let that last blow fall, that he had been strong enough for the both of them to resist everything Izaya had to offer and crush out the possibility of a future with the blow of his weapon against Izaya’s unprotected neck. It would have been easier, simpler, more sure; and at least the despair it would have brought would have been fleeting, not this long nightmare of hopelessness that Izaya has been caught in. He has resigned himself to it, has made his peace with the life he now lives and the dim of the future trudging on before him; and now,  _now_ , after Izaya long since gave up any kind of hope of something more, now Shizuo comes back to lay claim to that surrender Izaya made of himself on that muddy battlefield so many months ago.

Izaya keeps moving as long as he can, struggling down corridors and past startled servants that open their mouths to speak and close them again without giving voice to their concerns. Even when his knees begin to tremble enough to drop him to the floor he clutches at tapestries, at pedestals, at anything he can brace his palms against to hold him upright for another moment, another second. But even that only buys him a few dozen steps, the length of another hallway or two as the pain sweeps up his spine and crescendos in the back of his thoughts; and finally Izaya takes a step, and feels his legs give way, and knows himself to be undone even before he hits the floor. He catches himself at his hands, barely, saves himself from crashing face-first into the hard of the floor beneath him; but for the first moment that’s all he can do, is lie still and shaking where he fell with his legs screaming pain that for once isn’t enough, even at its height, to drown out the thought of Shizuo.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there. It’s some time; long enough for the agony to ebb to bearable, long enough to give him remove enough from his body’s panic to anticipate the next breath instead of just struggling through the present one. After several of those in a row he makes the attempt to push himself to upright, on arms that are trembling nearly as badly as his aching legs; that takes some effort, but he manages to get himself off the floor eventually, and even turned around to sit in an almost-ordinary position, were he not in the middle of the castle corridor. He pulls himself sideways from there, sliding back over the polished floor so he can press his shoulders to the wall of the corridor, so he can have the support of a wall at his back while he grits his teeth and reaches to pull his legs up and towards himself. Standing is out of the question -- his muscles are thrumming with pain and the beginnings of cramps, Izaya is very sure he’d make it no more than halfway to upright before collapsing to bruise purple and blue in at his knees -- but it’s comforting to pull his legs in towards himself, to draw himself into a smaller space so he can catch his arms around his knees and lean in as if to weight his chest against the tremor of his thighs. That helps, the pressure of his hold on himself or the relative compactness of his position or maybe just the sense of being enclosed, of holding himself together physically if not mentally; and then Izaya tightens his hold on either elbow, and sets his gaze down the hallway, and he waits.

It takes a while. By the time Izaya hears the distant sound of voices his legs have stopped shaking, have eased back into a numb passivity that promises agony if he disturbs it but calm if he resigns himself to stillness. He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t look to anticipate the voices; but he knows they’ll come, knows without a doubt that they will pass by him. He’s at the corner of one of the main hallways, where his unthinking half-run brought him; and there’s an inevitability to this, that even his desperate attempts at escape have done nothing but brought him back to where he began, back to that meeting and that memory he’s been trying to avoid for all this time. He can’t run anymore, can’t even stand; so he sits still, with his arms pressing tight around the angle of his drawn-up knees, and he waits for Shizuo to come to him.

The visitors come around the corner en masse, a cluster of three or four taking the lead for the rest of the crowd trailing behind them. There’s a Numoran representative at the front, turning in to speak to the Boscan visitor with a deference that is very nearly that one would show to an equal with just a touch more submissiveness, just a breath more capitulation. They don’t see Izaya right away -- he’s half-hidden in the shadows of the corridor, and their attention is clearly on their conversation -- and Izaya is given time to watch the group emerge while he goes unobserved from the dark of his position. Three Boscans turn down the corridor, a pair of Numorans, then two visitors more interested in looking around themselves than speaking to each other; and then candlelight catches on yellow hair as a figure standing half a head taller than the rest rounds the corner. Izaya feels his chest catch on a breath, a sharp intake of air too immediate for him to catch back; and Shizuo’s head turns, his attention swinging sharply to the side as if he’s heard the sound of his name. His gaze finds Izaya at once, picking the other out from the shadows as if they’re not even there; and this time he moves as quickly as they make eye contact, veering away from the rest of the group so suddenly it’s a moment before any of the rest of them react.

Izaya doesn’t move. He can’t move, can’t force his legs into action even if he wished for it; and this is inevitable, maybe it has been inevitable all this time, in spite of all the effort he has gone to to delay it. He stays where he is, curling forward around his knees and clinging to himself as if to hold the broken pieces of his body into a single entity; and then Shizuo stumbles to a stop in front of him, and stands staring down at Izaya at his feet. Izaya gazes up at him, looking at the fit of Shizuo’s coat over his white shirt, at the slump of the other’s shoulders, at the breathless part of his lips; he can see Shizuo’s throat work over a swallow, can see his hands flex against nothing like he’s thinking of a weapon, like he’s reaching for something long absent.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says. His voice is strangely soft, almost a whisper; Izaya can hear it as clearly as a shout. “You. You’re.” He presses his lips together and shakes his head like he’s trying to chase off some unpleasant thought; when he blinks the motion comes hard, pressing creases into the corners of his eyes like he’s fighting back emotion. There’s the sound of voices from behind him, the rest of the visitors calling Shizuo back or stepping forward to urge him to return to the group; but Shizuo doesn’t turn, doesn’t show any sign at all of so much as hearing their voices for the force of the attention he’s turning on Izaya.

Izaya takes a breath. Shizuo is standing over him, the illumination of the hallway glowing around him; the light turns his hair to gold, his shoulders steal the bright from Izaya’s face. Izaya’s legs are still numb, his muscles knotting and cramping from too much effort and too long holding still where he sits; but Shizuo is impossibly distant, his expression as unbearably far away as the garden on the other side of the library window, and even Izaya’s resignation doesn’t stretch this far. He closes his mouth, and he sets his jaw on determination; and then he ducks his head forward, and lets his hair fall in front of his face so Shizuo won’t see the pain in his expression as he pushes forward to stand up. The hurt jolts through him, it tears at his knees and sinks claws into his spine and presses all the breath from his lungs; but bitter determination is stronger, even as Izaya’s mind goes dizzy, even as his vision flickers with shadows, and if there’s one thing he will not let himself do it’s let Shizuo see him so entirely defeated for a second time. So he forces himself, he seizes control over his broken body and he demands support from his legs; and then he’s upright, standing straight on his own feet in front of Shizuo before him.

“Your Highness,” Izaya says, speaking into the dizzy whirl of his vision, hearing his voice echoing as if from a long way away. He can see the suggestion of blue in his periphery, can hear the sound of Shizuo’s breathing; there’s some rich scent in the air, something sweet and almost smoky, like the crisp of autumn leaves or the burnt edge of sugar on some elegant dessert. Of all the things Izaya has tried to forget, he had never expected he would succeed at losing that; it hits him now like a blow, dipping his lashes on so much weight he has to struggle to lift them again. He remembers the color of Shizuo’s eyes with perfect clarity, remembers the soft shift of his mouth and the way his lips draw tight when he’s trying to decide how he feels about a subject; he doesn’t have to look up to see that, doesn’t have to offer the shadows of his own expression for Shizuo’s taking. He ducks forward instead, dipping his head down to let his hair hang in front of his face; and farther still, angling an arm behind his back and one before him so he can fold into the most polished, precise bow he knows how to offer. The motion strains at his legs and pulls pain up the whole of his spine; but ducking forward Izaya can squeeze his eyes shut without Shizuo seeing, can part his lips on a silent gasp of pain without the other hearing. There’s a pause, a moment while Izaya lingers in the bow, while he collects his breath back into the cool distance of formality. “Welcome to Numora. On behalf of the kingdom, I hope that you enjoy your visit.”

Izaya can hear the catch of Shizuo’s inhale, can hear the almost-hurt on the sound. “Izaya,” he says again, lower than the last time, darker and a little shaky in the back of his throat. “I thought you--”

“Your Highness.” That’s not Izaya, not Shizuo himself; it’s a third voice, one Izaya doesn’t recognize, one of the Boscan visitors that came here along with Shizuo for the visit. “We should continue on to the guest quarters before the evening meal.”

“Please do.” That cool tone is more familiar; Izaya doesn’t have to look up to recognize the sleek polish of Shiki’s voice, the formal grace that comes with the layer of a threat behind it in even the most peaceful of interactions. “You and your people must be exhausted from your travels. We’ll be happy to arrange a tour of the palace later, should you desire it.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Shizuo says, with the start of friction on his tone, the beginnings of frustration catching at the back of his throat. “Izaya.” Izaya doesn’t look up, doesn’t so much as breathe; he isn’t sure he could, with pressure fisting so desperately tight around his chest.

“Come along, Your Highness” and there’s the sound of footsteps, the scuff of shoes backing away over the hallway. “There will be plenty of time for conversation later.”

“I want to--”

“Please take your time to settle yourself,” Shiki says, with the words of politeness and a tone of command. “We’ll be happy to provide anything you may desire during your time here once you’re established in your quarters.”

“I’m  _fine_ ,” Shizuo snaps, with something like his old anger on his tone; it sends a shudder down Izaya’s spine and tenses in the back of his thoughts with something a little bit terror and a little bit heat, a spark of adrenaline he had long since given up on feeling again. It seizes his breath in his chest and drags him through the sharp edge of a startled inhale; and over that breath, in time with it, Shizuo is speaking: “ _Izaya_ ,” breaking open the syllables of Izaya’s name onto something like desperation.

“Come,” that stranger’s voice says again, soothing and pleading at once; and then there’s the sound of footsteps, the proof of motion as the group resumes their forward pace down the hallway. Izaya waits for long seconds, listening to the sound of motion as the group strides away; and then, finally, he straightens from his gritted-teeth bow, and he lifts his head to look after them.

There’s a dozen people still rounding the corner of the hallway; Numorans, mostly, with the familiar dark of their uniforms to mark them out from the Boscan delegation. But Shizuo is still lingering at the back, walking slowly as the Boscan at his side urges him forward; Izaya can see the tension in his shoulders, can see the stutter-stop of his steps as he’s all but pushed into action. The visitor next to him tips in and  says something lost to the distance between them; but Izaya isn’t paying attention to the shift of the other’s lips, isn’t trying to read the words the man is murmuring to Shizuo next to him. He’s gazing at Shizuo instead, at the pale sweep of his hair and the easy slump of his shoulders; and then Shizuo’s weight shifts, his head turns, and he glances back over his shoulder to Izaya looking after him. Their eyes meet for a moment, just long enough for Shizuo to see Izaya gazing at him; and then Izaya ducks his head, and twists on his heel, and turns away to duck into the shadows of the hallway before Shizuo has entirely disappeared around the corner. There’s a long beat of time, a full minute while Izaya waits for the sound of the visitors’ footsteps to fade; and then he shuts his eyes, and lets his strength go, and lets himself slump heavily against the support of the wall alongside him.

He doesn’t know how long he lingers there, but at least if he stays standing he can pretend the tremor in his hands is from exhaustion instead of anything else.


	4. Falter

Izaya does not want to go to dinner.

He wants to stay in his rooms, wants to hide himself behind a locked door and under the weight of blankets and stay there until every whisper of the visitors is gone, until the Boscans have returned to their country and Shizuo has left the borders and Izaya can go back to the broken-glass resignation of his day-to-day life. But he remembers too clearly the last days of his own visit, remembers doomed politicking at events made painful by Shizuo’s absence, and if Shizuo was willing to hide from his responsibilities Izaya absolutely refuses to follow his lead. His pride is all he has left to him, at this point, and he intends to cling to it with absolute determination the more certain for the disaster of their first meeting; so he locks himself in his quarters, and he works through the hated exercises to gain some measure of mobility back in his legs, and then he calls a pair of servants in to help him dress for the evening.

This is a necessity. Izaya hates having an audience, hates having even trusted servants there to see the set of his jaw on discomfort and the tremor in his legs whenever he stands; but his appearance needs to be flawless, needs to be polished so bright it overwrites whatever of him Shizuo glimpsed this morning, and that means he needs the help of others. Izaya stays seated for much of the process, putting his arms into sleeves as directed and lifting his chin so a narrow ribbon can be tied carefully against his collar; and he gazes unseeing at the ceiling, or the wall, or his reflection, and he braces himself for the possibilities of the evening. He thinks of Shizuo: of the color of his hair, and the dark of his eyes, and the easy weight of his coat draping over his shoulders, of his hands on the hilt of a weapon; and he stares into the mirror before him and he fixes his expression to unreadable calm as if he’s fitting a mask to his features, as if he’s building a wall behind the dark of his eyes. By the time the servants are combing his hair back from his forehead Izaya has settled himself, has attired himself in determination like armor; and when he braces a hand at his chair and pushes himself up, the surge of pain that comes with it doesn’t even flicker at his lashes.

He makes his way to the hall in silence. The servant at his elbow provides him with support for each trembling step -- even determination can only do so much to overcome the weakness of Izaya’s body -- but Izaya doesn’t look at him and doesn’t offer any kind of conversational distraction. He is waging a war on his own composure, fighting a battle in advance of the true conflict, and he can’t waste the energy to make even a show of interest in anything beyond that. His mind is far ahead, skipping down the hallway with a lightness of foot his body lacks, now; until by the time they round the corner of the hallway to the doors of the dining hall Izaya has travelled the distance thrice over in his mind, anticipating and retreating in turn until his legs finally catch up with his adrenaline. The servant steps aside, freeing Izaya to his own uncertain balance without waiting for an order to do so, and Izaya squares his shoulders, and lifts his head, and waits for the doors to come open before him.

He’s ready for it, this time. He believed himself prepared, before, believed himself ready to bear the pain that must come with the name of  _Boscan_  on so many lips, with the even oblique references to the man who has so haunted his memories and who Izaya has so carefully stripped from his reality. But he hadn’t expected Shizuo himself, hadn’t anticipated the full force of the emotional impact the other’s presence would bring; and his composure had given way like so much kindling, as surely as his bones gave way to the blunt weight of Shizuo’s attacks on that muddy battlefield. Izaya was caught off-guard, this morning, startled out of composure and out of his own balance; but he knows, now, what trials he will be facing, and he’s ready for them. If Shizuo is here already, if Shizuo is to appear later; if Shizuo chooses to stage a repetition of his sulky avoidance and not arrive at all, Izaya is ready for anything, ready to accept and sidestep and shift away from the emotional blow any of those options will present. He can handle it, he tells himself, he can muster strength enough for this; and then his name rings out over the half-full room, and Izaya blinks himself into focus, and he sees Shizuo staring at him again.

It’s not a surprise, at least. It’s easier to bear, Izaya tells himself, as he steps forward as if on a cue he framed for himself while he was being dressed, with the slow stride his injuries necessitate if he is to walk unaided. He knew those dark eyes would be waiting, knew the odds of seeing Shizuo here tonight; he can bear this, he can stand against this, this is exactly as he expected it would be. But even all his expectations haven’t quite encompassed the reality of it, the heart-pounding immediacy of Shizuo here, in this room, seeing him; and when Izaya steps forward and into the room he does so with his breath coming faster in his chest and his hands trembling with the very beginnings of tension. Shizuo is moving, now, is pulling away from whatever conversation he was having and turning to face Izaya fully, to frame himself in towards the other even as he moves to stride forward and across the room; and Izaya turns aside, angling himself away and towards one of the servants bearing an array of glasses for the guests. The distance is too far, the pace of his steps too slow to make it before Shizuo catches up to him; but it gives him something else to look at, gives him something else to focus on while he listens to the sound of Shizuo’s footsteps drawing closer behind him.

“Izaya.” That voice is too familiar, too far from the present moment and too clear in Izaya’s memory; for a moment he can feel his composure tremble, can feel his jaw tighten on some emotion too much for him to quite restrain. He’s glad his back is to Shizuo, glad that first moment of reaction remains hidden by the angle of his shoulders. “Izaya,  _wait_.”

Izaya stops, letting the aching effort of his steps ease into fixed stability without turning around.  He could -- his response removes the possibility of claiming that he just didn’t hear Shizuo calling for him, he admits nothing more by turning -- but it’s easier to stand still, to fix his gaze on the far wall and let Shizuo come to him. There’s the scuff of footsteps, a stride coming so fast it’s nearly a jog; and then Shizuo’s stepping forward, closing the last distance to Izaya to stand in the other’s periphery with his shoulders turned entirely in to focus on Izaya next to him. Izaya takes a breath and feels it steadying against his shoulders; and then, finally, he turns his head to look at Shizuo next to him.

“Your Highness,” he says, hearing his voice cool and flat like it’s someone else’s, like he’s speaking to an absolute stranger instead of to the man who has wound through his dreams and nightmares alike since that first volatile introduction. He tips his chin forward in a nod of acknowledgment. “I hope you’ll forgive my lack of bow. I’m afraid I’m not as steady on my feet as I used to be.”

“I don’t care about that,” Shizuo says, hissing the words past his teeth with something that sounds like anger and creases like concern at his forehead. “I just want--” He breaks off with a grimace, frowning hard as he shakes his head, as his fingers curl at his sides with that same brief, wanting gesture he had in the hallway before. “Are you alright?” His gaze flickers across Izaya’s face, skimming the other’s features as if he’s recalling the details of them before dropping down to Izaya’s feet bracing flat against the floor. “What’s wrong with your legs?”

This is harder than Izaya expected it to be. He’s been anticipating this conversation all day, has worked through every possible interaction he might have in this first true dialogue with Shizuo; but it’s different in person, different with the candlelight catching gold at Shizuo’s hair and the speed of Shizuo’s heartbeat audible in the catch of his breathing. Izaya can smell that crisp, clean bite in the air between them; it feels like a lead, like a leash urging him to lean in, to press his nose against Shizuo’s collar and breathe in hard against the flush he can see clinging to the other’s skin. Izaya blinks hard, feeling dizzy, like his knees are locked or like he’s downed one too many glasses of wine, and then he fixes his gaze not-quite on Shizuo’s eyes, pinning his attention to the arch of the other’s cheekbone instead, and he speaks to that fixed point.

“They’re healing,” he says, offering clinical accuracy instead of the details he knows Shizuo is really asking after. “I can walk, when I need to. I’m fine.”

“You’re limping,” Shizuo says, with that intent focus that always urges heat into Izaya’s blood, that always prickles down his spine and curls tension in against his fingers. Izaya wants to shut his eyes and flinch against the burn of it, against that heat like sensation returning to a long-numb limb; he doesn’t so much as bat an eye to give away his reaction. “What do you mean, they’re  _healing_? It’s been  _months_  since I--” And he cuts himself off again, his words hissing to silence as he closes his mouth hard on whatever it is he had intended to say; but Izaya doesn’t need the benefit of words to make sense of the meaning. He huffs an exhale through his nose and consciously tightens the corner of his mouth into a mirthless smile.

“Since you tried to kill me,” he offers. There’s some satisfaction to the way Shizuo blinks, to the shift of his lips parting as if Izaya has struck a blow; but it’s a cold, distant thing, as if it’s some victory Izaya is watching someone else lay claim to rather than striking for himself. “Yes, well. Unfortunately it seems I lack the superhuman regeneration bred into the Boscan royal family.” He lifts his gaze deliberately from Shizuo’s cheek to his eyes instead, letting the dark of his gaze fix full on Shizuo with all the force his walled-off pain can grant him. “You’ll be relieved to know I won’t be offering you any further physical resistance. I assure you, Your Highness, you may consider me as defeated as my country, even if your influence leaves me less than able to kneel for your rule.”

Shizuo takes a sharp inhale, as if Izaya has reached out to slide a knife between his ribs and into the strain of air against his lungs; his forehead creases, his mouth tightens. “Izaya--”

“Forgive me,” Izaya says, offering more of that cold, removed tone to cut off whatever words Shizuo might want to frame. “I’m afraid I am in something like disgrace since my defeat at your hands resulted in the loss of my country’s military independence. Whatever political ends you may be after, I will be of no service to you in attaining them. I could introduce you to my sisters; they’re quite young as yet, but if you’re interested in beginning negotiations for a marriage alliance, I’m sure my father would be happy to oblige you.” Shizuo’s chin comes up, his eyes go dark; but Izaya is turning aside already, tipping his head as he shifts his weight to turn out towards the rest of the room and lift his hand to gesture in the vague direction of the crowd filling the rest of the space. “Have you had a chance yet to make their acquaintance? I’d be happy to make the connection for such an honored guest as yourself.”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo grates, the word tearing to rough, raw edges past the set of his teeth. Izaya can feel his legs tremble as in in resonance with the sound of Shizuo’s rising anger. “I didn’t come here to meet your sisters, Izaya.”

“No?” Izaya asks, and he’s lifting his head again to look up and meet Shizuo’s gaze as he lets his upraised arm fall. Shizuo is frowning hard at him, his mouth set tight on frustration; he looks something between furious and hurt, like the two emotions are warring for control over his expression. The combination flickers reminiscence in Izaya’s thoughts, throws back an echo of  _I got tired of you_  spit past teeth gritted on that same tangled weight of emotion; and maybe it’s that that tightens his voice, that spills the hint of something with more of an edge into his tone than the icy restraint he’s been enacting. “Why  _did_  you come here?” He lifts his hands at his sides, turning his palms up like he’s making an offering to Shizuo as he takes a step backwards, as he lets his smile pull brittle at his lips. “Were you filled with a desire to look upon your good works?”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Shizuo hisses, and he’s stepping in, crossing the span of Izaya’s step and more with one of his own to sweep aside all the distance between them at once. His hand comes out, his fingers close hard on Izaya’s arm just above his elbow; Izaya stumbles with the force, his already-precarious balance entirely compromised by the unexpected tug against him, but there’s nowhere to go but into the solid wall of Shizuo in front of him. “I’m trying to  _tell_  you, I’ve been--”

Izaya can feel the flex of Shizuo’s fingers tightening against him, can feel the shift of the other’s grip bracing at the sleeve of his coat as he makes sense of what he’s feeling, as his words give way yet again to the scattering force of distraction. Shizuo’s head ducks down, his gaze dropping from Izaya’s face to his arm, where Izaya can feel the force of Shizuo’s touch like a cuff just over his elbow; and then down farther, to the set of the other’s feet and the angle of his knees. Izaya can’t steady the tremors running through him, can’t will his overworked legs to stillness; even when he closes his fingers into a fist against his palm, he can feel himself thrumming as if with the force of an earthquake, as if the adrenaline trembling through his veins is printing itself obviously in his limbs as well.

“You’re shaking,” Shizuo says, delivering this obvious fact as if Izaya doesn’t know already, as if he can’t feel the motion running up the whole of his body like lightning trying to ground itself out between the flat of his shoes on the floor and the weight of Shizuo’s grip at his arm. Shizuo’s fingers at his arm tighten, his grip steadying to brace Izaya to stillness as his gaze jumps back up to the other’s face. “Are you sure you should be standing?”

Shizuo is far closer than he was; Izaya can see the edge of his teeth against his parted lips, can see the separate lashes shadowing his eyes. Izaya presses his lips tight together and lifts his chin as he swallows hard. “I’m fine, your Highness.”

“You’re  _not_ ,” Shizuo snaps, his mouth twisting on the words like they’re a knife. “What happened to you?”

“You should know,” Izaya says. “You’re the one who did it.” Shizuo flinches back, his eyes tightening as if on pain as he hisses a breath; but Izaya doesn’t wait to savor the moment, doesn’t linger to watch the effect of his words. He’s ducking his head instead, hiding his face in shadow as he jerks as hard against Shizuo’s hold as he can. “Let me go.”

Shizuo’s fingers shift, his thumb eases from its bruise-hard weight against Izaya’s skin; but his grip remains where it is, his hold remains unbreakable around Izaya’s arm. “You’ll fall.”

Izaya looks up through his lashes. Shizuo is gazing at him, his eyes fixed on the other’s face even as his mouth trembles with some unvoiced emotion, even as his forehead creases on the hurt Izaya’s words have done. He looks pained, wounded, like his hold on Izaya’s arm is clutching against some mortal injury; but there’s a force to his shoulders, a shadow behind his eyes that speaks to his determination to hold on regardless of what Izaya insists he can do. Izaya stares up into those eyes, holding dark with dark without blinking, without looking away; and then he takes a breath, and he lets his facade go slack for a moment, lets his expression fall into the surrender of sincerity for a heartbeat of time.

“Honestly,” he says, the word clear and crystalline on his tongue. “I would rather fall.”

Izaya doesn’t know what it is Shizuo sees in his expression. He’s not holding the wall steady behind his eyes, not fixing his mouth into deliberate, tight-fisted control; he’s just looking, staring up into Shizuo’s gaze with the heat of Shizuo’s touch bleeding into his clothes and the smell of Shizuo’s skin filling his lungs with every breath he takes. But he can see Shizuo’s expression, and what he sees is this: that crease giving way, those eyes widening at the same time those shaky lips part on a silent rush of air, like a whimper of pain too soft to be given voice. Izaya can feel the heat of it against his face, can feel the surrender of Shizuo’s exhale break over his features like the ocean splashing against the shore; and he can feel Shizuo’s fingers at his arm loosen as that iron grip goes slack and heavy under its own weight to fall to Shizuo’s side. They’re left facing each other, close enough to breathe the same air but not touching anywhere from the tips of their boots to the fall of their hair; and then Izaya inclines his chin, very slightly, and dips his lashes into what surrender gratitude brings with it. There’s a moment of quiet between them, the silence unbroken by Izaya’s speech or Shizuo’s protests; and then Izaya straightens his shoulders, and lifts his head, and turns to limp away without meeting Shizuo’s gaze again.

It’s a victory, to be sure, the closest match to Izaya’s imagination that he could hope for. The fact that he feels no satisfaction but the shake of his uncertain footing and the flutter of his aching heart is entirely beside the point.


	5. Glimpse

The visitors go on a tour of the palace grounds the day after their arrival.

Izaya is not invited to this. He’d like to tell himself this is out of consideration for his physical state that makes anything like an extended walk entirely impossible; he suspects it has far more to do with the tension he’s sure is visible between himself and the visiting prince to anyone who sees them together. During the Boscan negotiations Izaya was allowed far more leeway -- they were interacting as equals, then, for one thing, and for another Shizuo’s impropriety was so egregious anything Izaya did could be safely disregarded. But Numora is a defeated country, now, and that comes with a certain amount of deference to her conquerors, regardless of their own politeness or lack thereof. There is obviously some kind of friction between Izaya and the Boscan prince; and so Shizuo is swept out of the palace walls and into the beauty of the castle grounds, and Izaya is safely sequestered where even he can’t see a way to pick a fight with the visiting prince.

He returns to the library, of course. It’s the quietest place in the castle and the best location for removing him from the too-familiar confines of his quarters while still preventing the possibility of too many unexpected visitors. He’s surrounded by books, histories and records and all the documented political dealings he has found so engaging in the past; there are generations’ worth of information to dig through here, more than enough to occupy his attention for the span of one short morning, for the duration of one political visit. Izaya collected a stack of records from the shelves this morning -- or, more accurately, asked the servant who helped him here to collect them for him -- and he’s since spread them out all across the table in front of him, covering the smooth-polished surface of it and giving himself more than enough to occupy his attention while he waits for the hours of the morning to pass.

The fact that he hasn’t read so much as a sentence in the last hour is entirely beside the point.

The window Izaya sits next to provides a clear view of the gardens below, the spread of the trees and the array of neat shrubbery and blooming flowers alike. It was placed there with the intent of providing a distractingly pretty view; Izaya has appreciated that over the last months, on those rare occasions he finds it worth lifting his head from the book before him to consider the view of the gardens he hasn’t set foot in since the war. There’s something satisfying even to ignoring it; one of those few royal prerogatives he yet enjoys is to disregard some measure of the beauty constantly on display around him, and Izaya is determined to appreciate every last one of those benefits he has yet managed to cling to. But today his gaze slid to the glass as soon as the morning servant slipped out of the library doors, and kept slipping sideways with every passage of minutes; until there was the shift of motion below, and the catch of sunlight off expensive fabric, and Izaya’s attention to the documents in front of him gave way entirely to looking out the window as the Boscans stepped forward into the garden below.

Their progress is slow. Numora is making the most of this visit to demonstrate her wealth and pride, since power is no longer something she can cling to, and Izaya knows full well how impressive the gardens spilling forth in each courtyard are. The one below the library window is particularly large and particularly striking, with the turning of the leaves to shift the color palette to gold and red along with the usual dense green surrounding it; and there are stories to go with it, as well, retellings of historical events that have been structured into something like myth for the benefit of Numora and, now, for the effort to impress their visitors. The Numoran guide is standing before the group below, gesturing wide at the garden as she speaks words Izaya can’t hear to tell of Numora’s heritage and legends at once; but Izaya isn’t paying attention to her any more than he’s looking at any of the other unknown visitors below. The Boscans cluster close together, their heads held high as if to make a show of their comfort and their feet bringing them near to undermine the appearance of calm they wish to give; but Shizuo is standing apart, lingering at the back of the group with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunching in to make his disinterest clear. He’s not looking at their guide, isn’t reacting to the sweep of her arm as she gestures to the pair of trees in the far corner of the garden that are meant to indicate some long-dead lovers; he’s gazing at the garden unprompted, his attention lingering and wandering over the gold of the trees and the arrangements of flowers as if he’s there on his own instead of tied to the end of his group.

“You could just say hi.” The voice is from the other side of the room, cold and biting as winter ice; Izaya doesn’t turn around to give Namie the satisfaction of seeing his reaction. “If you want to see him so badly, send a messenger to invite him here yourself.”

“I don’t want to see him,” Izaya says without looking away from the view below. Shizuo is lifting his head to consider the spreading height of one of the trees before him; if Izaya squints he imagines he can see the dark shift of the other’s lashes as he blinks up at the sight before him. “I have no interest at all in playing attendance on the invading royalty.”

“They’re not invading,” Namie corrects with brutal accuracy. “It’s a sign of respect that they’re here as visitors and not conquerors.”

“Semantics,” Izaya tells her. “We all know what they’re actually doing. I’ll be happy when they all go home to their own country again.”

“Uh huh,” Namie says. “Is that why you haven’t stopped staring at your prince since he set foot in the garden?”

“Shut up, Namie,” Izaya snaps. “He’s not  _my_  prince.”

Izaya can almost hear Namie’s eyeroll, it’s so intense. “The  _Boscan heir_ , then,” she says, with more of a bite on her words than she usually bothers with. “The prince of the kingdom that now holds us in the palm of their hand. The man who had to break nearly every bone in your body before you would surrender to him. The person who--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Izaya hisses. “I’m abundantly aware of who he is.”

“--you’ve been staring at since he stepped into sight,” Namie finishes, without any apparent recognition of Izaya’s reply. “I can tell how badly you want him gone, of course.”

Izaya hunches his shoulders in as if he can hide his expression in the shadow of his position. “I do,” he says without looking away from Shizuo beneath him. “He’s the source of my trauma, Namie, why would I  _want_  him here?”

“I have no idea,” Namie says, with the cold that passes for her brand of sincerity. “I just know you’ve been absolutely frantic about him ever since you found out he was part of the delegation.”

“I have not been  _frantic_ ,” Izaya corrects her. “I have been composed and distant, as befits our positions.”

“To his face, maybe.” There’s the sound of a book thumping closed and the scrape of a chair drawing back from a table. “You’re all but pacing the floor when he can’t see you. Do you really think so little of his skills of observation that he won’t notice how jittery you are?”

“He won’t notice,” Izaya says. He can hear the sound of Namie’s footsteps approaching from the other side of the room; he hunches his shoulders in harder and tips forward so he can rest his elbow against the edge of the window and brace his chin against his palm. “He’s not interested in me, now that I have nothing to offer to pique his attention.”

“You sound like a jilted lover.” Namie’s shadow falls over the glass of the window; Izaya can see her head shift as she leans in to look over his shoulder and down into the beauty of the garden below. “Where are you getting  _disinterest_  from him following you across the country?”

“He didn’t follow me,” Izaya says. “He came here for politics. He’s the prince of his country, Boscan probably has some kind of plan to put him on the throne in my place.”

“We can only hope,” Namie says, her voice as absolutely dry as it is frigid; but Izaya’s attention isn’t on her at all, either her expression or the tone of her words. The group in the garden below is beginning to shift again, collecting in closer as their guide turns to indicate their next destination through a polished stone arch; Izaya can’t see the interior of the walled-off garden from his angle, he’ll lose his sight of the guests as soon as they move on. Shizuo is still standing separate from the others, his attention still clinging to the color of the leaves instead of tracking the gesture or speech of the guide intended to be leading the group; Izaya can see his head tilt, can see the shift of his shoulders as he looks up at the branches spreading out into the space overhead. Shizuo shifts his feet and lifts his chin higher; and then his head tips, his gaze jumps sideways, and he’s turning to look towards the front of the castle, his gaze skipping up to the glass of the window where Izaya is sitting.

Their eyes meet at once. Izaya wonders if it’s the force of his stare that finally captured Shizuo’s attention; maybe it was some shift of Namie’s motion that caught the light more than Izaya’s dark shirt and still position. It doesn’t make a difference in any case; Shizuo sees him now, at least, and too immediately for Izaya to even think to duck his head to pull away from the window. They’re held still there, Izaya gazing down at Shizuo through the glass of the window and Shizuo staring up at him from his position in the garden, and for the span of a breath Izaya is left to take in the shift of Shizuo’s hair in the breeze catching at the yellow of it, to notice the open V of Shizuo’s coat over the white of the shirt beneath. There’s no tension in Shizuo’s face, none of the scowl or grimace Izaya might expect; he’s just staring, looking up at Izaya as if he’s looking at a painting, with an expression so nearly blank Izaya can read nothing from it but attention.

“Well,” Namie says from behind Izaya, the edge of her voice startling as it scatters Izaya’s distracted attention. “If you think  _that’s_  what disinterest looks like we should bring you back in for another examination, because you must be blind as well as crippled by that last fight.”

Izaya ducks his head to break away from the eye contact with Shizuo below him, but he doesn’t pull away from the window. “Shut up, Namie.”

“With pleasure,” Namie says. “ _I_  certainly have better things to do than watch you pine, even if your prince doesn’t.” She turns to stride away across the room; Izaya tips his head without raising his chin to watch her sideways as she moves towards the door. “It’s no wonder negotiations were such a failure with the two of you too caught up in making eyes at each other to think about politics.”

“Go away,” Izaya tells her. “I don’t need to stand for this kind of slander in my own home.”

“You’re not standing for much of anything recently,” Namie says as she reaches for the door to the library to let herself out. “Except that blond Boscan, that is. Would you do your exercises if  _he_  wanted you to?”

“No,” Izaya lies. “Leave me alone.”

“Leaving,” Namie says shortly as she steps through the doorway; and then she’s gone, with only the sound of her footsteps pacing away down the hall to see her off before the door swings shut behind her again. Izaya watches the door for a moment, just to make sure she’s not going to turn around and return unexpectedly; and then he tips his head and looks back out to the garden.

The visitors are moving towards that far archway, shuffling through it in a cluster that makes them look like nothing so much as sheep being herded along by that overworked Numoran shepherd at the front. The idea would be enough to make Izaya smile, in other days; he barely spares a breath for it now. Shizuo is still lingering at the back, his steps delaying to leave a full paving stone of distance between himself and the rest of the group; and he’s still looking up, still has his gaze fixed on Izaya’s window. Their eyes meet again, just for a moment; Izaya can see the flicker of Shizuo’s lashes, can see something shift at his mouth, like a smile, maybe, or words lost irrevocably to the distance between them. Then one of the other Boscans doubles back, reaching out to catch at Shizuo’s sleeve as he says something to urge the other on; the stranger turns his head to glance up in the direction of Shizuo’s gaze, but he doesn’t see Izaya at the window, or maybe he’s just looking in the wrong direction, because he looks away again at once and pulls to urge Shizuo forward again. Shizuo moves, his steps urged on by the force of the other’s hold; but he keeps watching Izaya over his shoulder, his attention clinging to the window until he’s pulled through the archway into the next garden and out of sight. Izaya blinks as Shizuo disappears, feeling like he’s just been brought back into the rest of the world around him; and then he turns away from the glass, and looks back at the documents spread out over the table before him with as much attention as if he’s just seeing them for the first time. He reaches to draw one in towards him, leaning hard against the support of the table beneath him as he pulls the weight across the surface so he can tip in over the pages and immerse himself in the strategic maneuvers of a war general so lost to time he has become more a legend than a historical figure.

There’s no reason he should be fighting back a smile at his lips as he reads, no reason he should have to brace his hand over his mouth to hide the expression; but with Namie out of the room, there’s no one there to call him out on it.


	6. Enduring

“This is a surprise,” Namie says from over Izaya’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d have you in here two days in the same week, much less two days in a row. If you keep on like this you might actually start improving.”

Izaya hisses past the grit of his set teeth. “Shut  _up_ , Namie.” He lifts his leg up in front of him to bring the weight strapped against his ankle off the floor; the spike of hurt that runs up the whole of his leg is enough to chase away the burn of embarrassment from him for at least a moment. “I don’t care about getting better.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying,” Namie says. “I thought that was why you’ve been hiding away in the library like a dusty gargoyle.” There’s the sound of paper drawing over itself; Izaya twists his head to see if Namie actually is reading while he sweats through his exercises, but he can’t get a good look over his shoulder, and besides the effort of holding the weight up and out is starting to shake up the whole of his leg. “I’m sure you’re going to claim the change in your feelings is wholly unrelated to the visiting delegation, right?”

“No,” Izaya says. He braces his hands hard beneath him so he can fix his attention on slowly returning his foot to the floor, deliberately enough that the weight doesn’t rattle against the surface. “Of course it has to do with the stupid Boscans.” He gets his foot down and lets the strain in his leg go slack for a moment so he can catch his breath; his heart is pounding in his chest but he only gives himself a moment to drag an inhale before he braces himself to repeat the motion with his other leg. “They’re  _everywhere_  since they arrived. The infirmary is the only place I can be sure I won’t be interrupted by them.”

“The only place you can be sure you won’t accidentally run into your favorite prince,” Namie counters. There’s another rustle of paper; Izaya fixes his gaze on his foot, pinning his whole attention there as he reaches the topmost point of his range and pauses before beginning the slow descent. It doesn’t work as well as it might at blocking out the sound of Namie’s voice. “Why are you so intent on avoiding him?”

“I’m not avoiding him,” Izaya says. He’s glad for the strain of the physical effort to excuse the tension on his voice. “We just move in different circles. He’s an honored guest and I’m a disgraced invalid.”

“You move quickly enough when you’re dodging him,” Namie says with desert drought on her tone. “If you want to avoid him you could just order the servants to keep your location a secret.”

Izaya’s foot hits the floor with a little more weight than he intended. “I’d hardly go to such lengths,” he says, and pushes forward to unfasten the straps holding the weight to his leg. “I told you, I’m not avoiding him. If he wishes to talk to me he’s more than welcome to.”

Namie’s sigh is deliberately loud. “Do you ever step back and realize how idiotic you sound?”

“I’m being perfectly reasonable,” Izaya says as he lets the first weight fall to the floor and reaches to unstrap the second. “And you could do with a little more respect. I may be disgraced but I’m still part of the ruling family.”

“My apologies,” Namie says. “Have you considered that you’re behaving like a complete fool, Your Highness?”

“I’m done for today,” Izaya declares. “Help me up, Namie.”

“You can do it yourself,” Namie tells him. “You’re stronger than you think you are.” But there’s the sound of footsteps approaching in spite of her protests, and when Izaya holds his arms out Namie’s hands close hard against his elbows to take his weight. She lifts without asking if he’s ready, pulling him to his feet with her usual brutal efficiency and waiting only until he has his feet flat under him before she lets him go and turns away again. Izaya wobbles with the loss, teetering in some danger of falling before he can reach out and brace himself to stillness against the back of a chair, but when he looks back over his shoulder to glare at Namie she’s circling back to the sheaf of notes open at the desk she’s been sitting at, her head ducked down and attention apparently fixed already on whatever else she’s doing.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Izaya drawls with the full weight of all the sarcasm he can fit on the words. “Your care never fails to be the most tender and considerate.”

“You’re welcome,” Namie says without so much as a flicker in the cool flat of her tone or the hint of a glance as she sits down behind the desk. “It’s better for you than coddling would be.”

“Your sympathy is astounding,” Izaya says. “You know how much I look forward to these little interludes, they always leave me so warm and fuzzy.”

“I’m sure,” Namie says. “See you tomorrow.” Izaya waits a moment, just in case Namie looks up from her papers; but she appears as wholly engrossed in them as if he’s already left the room entirely. He huffs a breath of frustration soft enough that it won’t carry into the absorbed study she appears to have fallen into and turns to make his way across the infirmary towards the door.

He’s thinking of the path through the halls to his room, turning over the possibility of changing before returning to his usual haunts in the library or perhaps indulging in a bath before beginning the process of preparing for dinner; he’s almost entirely forgotten about Namie by the time he’s reaching for the handle of the door to pull it open. His hand closes on the weight, he pulls against the burden of it to swing the door in and open; and from behind him a voice: “You couldn’t do that last week,” in such a cool tone Namie might as well be speaking of the weather.

Izaya looks back over his shoulder. “What?”

“Opening the door like that.” Namie lifts her head to fix Izaya with a cool gaze from across the room. “When you came in here last month you had to brace against the doorframe to get the support to pull the door open. And it still took you five minutes.”

Izaya feels his legs flex, feels his shoulders angle back with self-consciousness at his present position: feet flat on the floor, arm loose at his side, his whole position casual and unthinking with the shift of balance and force it requires to pull the weight of the door open. “Yeah,” he says, and lifts his chin to toss his hair back from his face with as much haughty self-composure as he can manage. “You  _could_  have helped me with it instead of leaving me to struggle.” Namie just keeps gazing at him, meeting the bite of his complaint without so much as batting an eye; Izaya can feel his shoulders tense, can feel his face starting to warm with a flush. He turns his head to look out the door and into the hallway instead, just for the excuse of having something else to stare at. “It’s just a door, anyway.”

“It is,” Namie says without flinching at all in agreeing with Izaya’s statement. “It’s still improvement.” There’s a shift from the desk; when Izaya risks a glance back Namie is looking back down at the papers in front of her. “This visit from Boscan might be the best thing that’s happened to you since the war.”

“Oh, shut up,” Izaya says, and then he turns to step forward and out of the infirmary as fast as his effort-shaky legs will carry him. Namie obeys him, at least long enough for him to clear the door and hear it swing shut behind him, and Izaya pauses in the hallway for a moment to collect himself. His face is still warmer than he could wish, his cheeks still flushed with color beyond what he can explain away as the physical exertion of working through Namie’s endless array of exercises; but more his legs are shakier than he realized, and with the absence of an audience to hold himself steady for he can feel the tremor in them with alarming clarity. The distance back to his own quarters seems far greater now than it did when he was inside; for a moment he reaches for the wall alongside him just to brace a hand against the support of it for the span of a breath while he steadies his footing.

“Izaya?”

Izaya can feel the sound of that voice like a physical force running through the whole of his body, a shudder of tension that starts at the very top of his head and ripples through the rest of him in a wave, from the angle of his shoulders and the skip of his breathing to the drop of his stomach and the quiver of his legs. His knees lock, his fingers tense, and for a moment he’s very, very glad for the support of the wall against his hand, just for the claim to balance it grants him. He presses his lips together and swallows hard, feeling the shift of his throat and the breath in his chest as clearly as if they belong to someone else, as if they’re tools he’s borrowing for his own use in the moment; and then he lifts his head, and parts his lips, and frames words in a careful tone as distant and calm as if he’s imitating Namie more than himself. “Your Highness.” He leans hard against his palm at the wall, tipping into the support as subtly as possible to buy himself a modicum of grace as he pivots against his heel to turn and face Shizuo behind him. Their eyes meet for a moment, for a heartbeat; and Izaya ducks forward into a bow at once, giving up the stability of his footing for the excuse to hide his expression. His knees wobble, his legs threaten to topple him face-first to the floor; but his fingers at the wall save him, along with his absolute determination to stay upright in front of Shizuo regardless of the cost. “May I be of some assistance to you?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says. His voice is strained, pulled taut on effort like he’s fighting something back, or like he’s been running for some endless period of time; it’s some bitter satisfaction, Izaya thinks, to hear his own effort so perfectly mirrored in Shizuo’s throat while his own tone remains as polished and distant as he can make it. “I’ve been looking for--the servants told me I could find you up here.”

“I’m honored to be of service to you,” Izaya says as he straightens with a deliberate slowness as much from the effort of keeping his balance as from a desire to draw out the motion of lifting his gaze to meet Shizuo’s once more. He keeps his hand at the wall as a point of stability to counter the tremor in his legs; it’s only once he’s sure of his footing once more that he raises his gaze up over the smooth dark of Shizuo’s pants and the embroidery picked out in silver on the blue of his vest leading up to the line of his throat and the set of his mouth. There’s a tremor at Shizuo’s lips, a quiver underlying the frown he’s fixing Izaya with; Izaya’s gaze lingers there for a moment before he raises his lashes enough to meet the dark weight of Shizuo’s stare. “What may I do to extend the hospitality of my nation to grant Your Highness’s wishes?”

Shizuo grimaces as if Izaya has landed a physical blow, as if they’re back on the Boscan training grounds and he’s just felt the bruising force of a fencing foil stabbing at his shoulder. “Stop that,” he says. “Stop talking like that.”

“Like how?” Izaya says. “I do apologize if my words offend Your Highness, I simply--”

“Like  _that_ ,” Shizuo says, and takes a step forward over the distance between them, the motion so rushed it seems more instinctive than otherwise. His hand comes up from his side as if to gesture Izaya to silence or to reach out for him, maybe; it’s impossible to tell before he closes his fingers into a fist on the motion and pulls his arm back to his side. “You’re acting like we’ve never met each other before.”

“I would think you’d prefer it that way,” Izaya says. “Our past association is rather more likely to tarnish your glorious reputation than prove of any benefit to you.”

“ _God_ ,” Shizuo groans. He lifts a hand to shove roughly through his hair; the force of his fingers rumples the yellow of the strands to fall loose around his face. “I don’t  _care_  about my stupid reputation, Izaya.”

“No?” Izaya says. “What  _do_  you care about?”

Shizuo’s hand stalls in its movement, his fingers fall to stillness at the back of his neck. His gaze comes up to meet Izaya’s, to fix full on the other’s face; for a moment they’re just staring at each other over the space of the hallway, with a few strides’ worth of distance between them that might as well be the distance from that garden path to the library window. Izaya can see the tension fall free of Shizuo’s expression, can watch the frustration at the other’s lips give way to softness, to a weight that looks more like unhappiness than the start of anger that was there before; his hand slides away from the back of his neck to fall to his side, drawn down by the slack weight of his arm stripped of strength by inattention. Izaya’s own arm is trembling where he’s bracing himself against the wall; he tries to ease his knees out of their locked-out rigidity, but it doesn’t seem to help chase away the haze tunneling his vision down to that single point of focus on Shizuo’s face, as if he’s staring at the sun and burning away his ability to see anything less brilliant.

Shizuo takes a breath. “Izaya,” he says, and takes a step forward again, a short, desperate motion as if impulse is overriding restraint, as if he can’t hold back the involuntary action. “You--” and then his voice dies, his head ducks down. Izaya watches his shoulders hunch, watches Shizuo’s fingers curl in at his sides like he’s struggling to reach something, like he’s trying to hold something back; when he lifts his head again it’s to look aside, to turn his attention to the door next to him instead of on Izaya. Izaya can watch Shizuo’s gaze draw up over the smooth of the door, over the unadorned frame of the entrance; can see the frown of curiosity start at the other’s lips as he considers the shape of it.

“The servants said you were in the infirmary,” Shizuo says, and then he’s looking back to Izaya, his frown deepening as he considers the other. “What are you doing here?” He takes another step forward; this time when he reaches out it’s intentional, a hand extended as if in offer into the space between them, as if to touch and catch at Izaya’s elbow. “Are you okay?”

Izaya takes a breath through his nose. Shizuo is so close he can almost taste him in the air, can almost feel the heat of the other’s body glowing against his bare skin. He smells like crisp leaves, like cool water, like the dust of a training ground and the bite of bared steel. Izaya wants to lean forward into that heat, wants to reach for that outstretched hand, wants to accept the invitation behind those pained dark eyes and grant the forgiveness Shizuo’s hunched-shoulder guilt is pleading for. But his legs are shaking, his whole body feels like a wire dragged taut around all the desperate strength in him, and he’s not sure that he’ll have anything left to hold him up if he lets this last vestige of control go. So he fills his lungs with the smell of Shizuo’s skin, with the warmth of Shizuo’s presence; and then he lets the breath go, trembling through the effort of it, and he lets his hold on the wall go to reach out for Shizuo’s outstretched hand instead.

“Thank you for your generosity,” he says as his fingers brush over Shizuo’s palm, as Shizuo’s touch shifts to reach for his wrist, to clasp against his hand; and Izaya pushes back against it, urging Shizuo’s hand back from him with all the strength in his uncertain footing and all the pride in his brittle shoulders. “You have no need to concern yourself with my wellbeing.”

Shizuo ducks his head, grimacing as if with pain as Izaya pushes his hand back. “I don’t  _need_  to,” he says. “I  _want_  to.” But he lets his hold go as Izaya draws his hand away, his grip giving way as if strengthless to the pull of Izaya’s retreat, and when Izaya takes a step backwards Shizuo’s fingers close in against his palm, Shizuo’s arm falls to his side with the heavy weight of defeat.

Izaya looks at him for a moment, taking advantage of the duck of Shizuo’s head to let his gaze linger against the yellow of the other’s hair, against the tie holding the curl of it back against the crisp edge of Shizuo’s collar. Then he takes a half-step back, setting his feet with careful precision, and he tips forward into a bow without any support at all.

“I’m sure we will see more of each other over the remainder of your visit,” he says. “Perhaps I can be of more service to you in the future.” And he straightens with careful dignity, meeting Shizuo’s gaze for a brief moment before he ducks his head and turns to move away down the hall.

Izaya has no idea where he’s going. His quarters, the library, the kitchens; it’s enough to be elsewhere, to be free of the weight of Shizuo’s gaze he can feel following him all the way down the hallway. But his cheeks are flushed by the time he turns the corner, his breath is catching fast in his throat, and it’s not just the effort of his physical exertion that is so speeding the rhythm of his heartbeat in his chest.

It’s some time before his fingers are willing to give up the shudder of sensation they gathered at Shizuo’s skin.


	7. Audience

Izaya goes down to breakfast early the next morning.

He doesn’t have to. Breakfast is a far more informal event; even skipping dinner the evening before as he did doesn’t leave him with any particular obligation to make an appearance at the morning meal. No one has any expectation of his arrival, there is no ceremonial welcome to be worked through; Izaya could as easily have his morning tea brought in to his rooms and eat from the comfort of his bed as go through the trouble of getting dressed and making his painstaking way to the dining hall. But he sleeps poorly, tossing and turning to wake tangled in sweat and his bedsheets, and by the time the dawn is threatening the sky outside his window with the start of grey Izaya is more than ready for daybreak. He makes his way out of bed and to the chair by the window, with the soft comfort of the cushions to ease muscles stiff with the inactivity of sleep, and by the time he’s watched the sky turn through the shadings of blue and pink and gold the haze of insufficient rest has cleared enough to leave him hungry for a more substantial meal than what he might have brought in with his tea tray.

He could still call in a servant. There’s a bell pull alongside the soft of his bed; he could make his way there as easily as he could navigate to the official hall for meals, could summon a servant and make whatever demands his whims suggest. But when Izaya braces his hands at the arms of his cushioned chair and forces himself through the flinching effort of rising, he does so without looking back towards the mess he’s made of his bedsheets; and when he straightens to set his jaw against the ache of pain as he steps forward to cross the room, he sets his gaze on his mirror instead of the draw of his bed.

He doesn’t spend long before the glass. The knots of an ill night’s sleep fall free to the pull of a brush, a few minute’s effort rendering his hair as smooth and glossy as any servant could manage; a span of time spent seated in front of the mirror brings a trace of color back into his face from the tight-lipped, bloodless white that so gripped him when he first lowered himself to the chair. There are shadows beneath his eyes, hints of purple and blue-black darkness to speak to his feverish dreams and restless night; but there’s nothing he can do about that, unless he wishes to take up a habit of painting his face as well as fixing his features into a mask of composure, and all the color in the world won’t bring back the flush of true health he has seen thrown back in other mirrors in the guest rooms of other countries. Enough that he looks composed, that his appearance is polished if not painless; and then Izaya pushes himself to his feet, and turns to work through the effort required in dressing himself and working the early morning stiffness from his legs at one and the same time.

It takes some time. Dressing is a simple enough process; it’s early yet, if he makes his way downstairs rapidly enough he will have the opportunity to eat his breakfast and absent himself before he runs the risk of actually encountering any of their political visitors. But his legs are achy, as they’re always achy, and Izaya tells himself he hardly wants to limp in and out of the dining room, even if there’s no one there to see him but a handful of servants and a few nobles. So he paces out the length of his room for long minutes, working his legs into a glow of effort enough to smooth off the worst of his limp if not to diminish the dull, distant throb of pain; and it’s only once he’s satisfied with the fluidity of his stride that he goes to his wardrobe to pull open the weight of the doors and search within for something suitable to wear. His plain shirts are too casual, his embroidered silks too formal; he skips entirely past the loose white sleeves that still seem to carry a suggestion of Boscan dust on them, that he imagines still have tears that have gone long unmended from the catch of a two-handed sword barely missing bruising against the line of his arm. Izaya goes through the whole of his closet, frowning hard into the shadows of it as he considers and discards ideas; finally he finds a thin silk shirt, lighter than his more formal attire but still delicate enough to drape well over his shoulders and at his wrists. He tugs that over his head, and adds the dark of a black vest embroidered with scarlet edging he buttons in to fit close against his waist; a pair of pants to match the vest, and the lighter almost-slippers he has been wearing in place of the unmanageable burden of boots, and he’s ready to make his descent to the dining hall. He checks himself in the mirror once more, looking over the dip of the vest at his waist, and the fall of his sleeves, and the set of his pants against his hips; and then he turns at once, more out of impatience than satisfaction, and moves towards the door with the steadiest stride he can manage.

The castle is very quiet as he makes his way towards the dining hall. There are a handful of servants about, as usual; but Izaya sees no trace of the king or queen any more than he glimpses so much as a shadow of Boscan blue. The visitors must be sleeping late, he decides as he slows his steps in approaching the dining hall; all the better for him to make his appearance and leave with the least amount of irritation. He won’t have to make conversation this way, he tells himself as he pulls open the door to the dining hall and steps inside; he can appear and then slip away again, leaving only the echo of his presence at the servants’ lips to prove to latecomers that he was here at all.

The room isn’t quite empty as he steps through the doors. It’s true that other than the servants there are only a pair of visitors in attendance as Izaya comes forward into the room, and neither of them are wearing the paler shades the Boscan guests seem to feel the need to display with their every appearance; but the two already present are leaning close together, standing with their heads tipped so near Izaya would think them to be whispering a scheme if he didn’t recognize both dark heads on sight, and if he didn’t know them to be plotting without any need for vocalized whispers at all. The thought makes a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, even if it’s taut with humorless strain, and Izaya turns away towards the other end of the room without bothering with offering a greeting to either of his twin sisters before he makes his way to the table to lay claim to the comfort of one of the high-backed chairs there. He’s confident he doesn’t need to speak up to draw their attention; given a very few minutes, they’ll find their way to him instead.

He’s not mistaken in this, at least. It takes him a moment to get settled in his chair, even with the assistance of one of the servants to draw it back and slide it in for him as he lowers himself to the give of the cushion; by the time Izaya is reaching out to draw a pot of tea in towards himself two dark heads have turned towards him, two matched sets of wide eyes have fixed on him, and all he has to do is let his mouth twist on a wry smile before looking down to his teacup to summon himself company, whether he desires it or not.

“Brother!” It’s Mairu speaking as the twins draw up towards the edge of the table, as it always is; she chirps over the title with as much volume as if they’re in a crowded ballroom instead of an echoing chamber empty of any but the three of them and servants. She climbs up to kneel against the cushion of the chair directly across from Izaya without any consideration of the crinkling elegance of the gown she’s wearing; it’s Kururi in the soft dark of breeches and a shirt akin to Izaya’s old training clothes who steps back to wait for the approach of one of the servants to draw her chair back for her and settle her into it with some measure of the decorum Izaya himself displayed upon his entrance. Mairu, meanwhile, is leaning in far over the table, tipping in to press both elbows down against the crisp fall of the tablecloth and catch her chin in her hands as she blinks wide-eyed interest at Izaya across from her. “It is such an unexpected pleasure to see you amongst the populace at this hour of the morning!”

“Good morning to you too,” Izaya remarks without bothering to strip the dryness from his tone. He looks to Mairu’s left, where Kururi is just reaching to tug a napkin off the table and unfold it over her lap, and ducks his head into a nod. “Kururi.”

“We’ve been wondering,” Mairu says, speaking without any pause while Kururi nods in return and mumbles something so softly it’s utterly lost to hearing. “You’ve been down for more meals in the last week than you have in the whole time since you were released from the infirmary. Kururi and I have several theories on the subject!”

“Spare me your playing at politics,” Izaya tells her as he reaches for a roll from the dish of steaming hot pastries in the middle of the table. “You’ll never become a great ruler if you insist on making something out of every little detail.”

Kururi shakes her head. “Big.”

“Kururi’s right,” Mairu says. “It’s not a little detail.” She lifts her hand to count off on her fingers. “Last month you came down for breakfast twice, both while Mother and Father were out touring the boundary of the kingdom. Kururi says she saw you coming back from the kitchen after the noon meal once, but I don’t think it counts if you weren’t in the main hall, so that one is only half a visit. And then there was the dinner you attended, when Father was announcing the result of the peace treaty. But you only sat in the corner then, I don’t think you said anything at all.” She drops her hand to turn face-down on the table and fixes Izaya with the full force of her gaze. “And now you’ve been for the official greeting party, and dinner twice, and now breakfast. Either you’ve suddenly decided to return to social gatherings or--”

“Who,” Kururi murmurs from Mairu’s elbow.

“Yeah,” Mairu says. “Or there’s some reason you’re suddenly appearing at meals again.” She reaches out to touch a finger against the shoulder of Izaya’s vest. “This is quite fancy for breakfast, isn’t it?”

Izaya lifts his hand to brush Mairu’s touch aside. “If you want to be helpful hand me the butter,” he orders. “Or would you prefer to play at gossips like little old women?”

“We’re not being gossips,” Mairu says, reaching to lay hand to the butter without looking away from her intent gaze on Izaya’s face. “We’re just wondering.” She hands over the butter dish and promptly returns her elbow to brace at the table once more. “Namie said you’re doing your exercises again too.”

“Namie is a terrible traitor to the crown,” Izaya declares loftily as he reaches for a knife to slice open his roll and layer a pat of butter into the flaky interior. “I think maybe I’ll have her beheaded for spilling royal secrets.”

“Ooh, really?” Mairu chirps. “Can we watch the execution?”

“Absolutely not,” Izaya says. “You are bloodthirsty young monsters, you ought not to be encouraged in your ways.”

“We know,” Mairu says without any indication of shame in this. “You’re not going to have Namie executed anyway. If you got rid of her you’d have no one to talk to at all.”

Izaya looks up from his roll to scowl at his more talkative sister. “Excuse you,” he says. “I have a lengthy list of friends and acquaintances, don’t confuse  _your_  lack of social life with mine.”

Mairu shrugs. “It’s not like it matters for us,” she says. “Since Kururi and I always have each other.” She tips her head to the side to gaze at Izaya; next to her Kururi lifts her head to echo the motion, apparently without any conscious thought to the action. The paired movement would be uncanny in the best of cases; when Izaya’s on the other side of the table from it, it’s enough to make him frown harder in answer to those matched stares. “You’ve been locking yourself away in your rooms since the war, though. What made you come back down?”

“Prince,” Kururi says. Izaya glares at her, turning the whole weight of his displeasure on this unexpected source of betrayal; but it’s Mairu who rocks up onto her knees to clap her hands together.

“That’s exactly what  _I_  was thinking,” she declares. “It’s the Boscan prince, isn’t it?”

“No,” Izaya says, and ducks his head to look down at the roll on his plate as he dedicates himself to spreading butter over the pastry with deliberate intent. “Who?”

“You know,” Mairu says, with so much cheer in her voice as to make it clear Izaya’s denial has had no effect at all in shaking her off the trail. “The tall blond one who stares at you every time you’re in a room together.”

“Handsome.”

“The handsome one,” Mairu clarifies, as if Kururi’s input were really necessary to further narrow down the list of possibilities. “Did you two have a flirtation while you were visiting Boscan before the war?”

“Absolutely not,” Izaya says, and sets his knife down hard at the edge of his plate to punctuate. “I don’t know where you get these wild ideas, I certainly never had half this much imagination when I was your age.”

“Blush,” Kururi says.

Izaya’s gaze skips up from his roll. “I am  _not_ ,” he says, lifting his fingers to his cheek; it’s not until he feels the absolute lack of warmth under his touch that he realizes the crack in his voice on his denial has given him away far more than the lack of color in his smooth facade.

“Oh wow,” Mairu hums. “You  _are_  worked up about him.” She makes a considering sound in the back of her throat, like she’s working over the idea. “I guess he’s pretty good-looking. I like brunets myself, of course, but he has a nice face.”

“You should meet his brother,” Izaya says, ducking his head to fix his gaze firmly on his roll once more. “He’s exactly your type, you’d love him.”

“Ooh,” Mairu says. “Do you think Father will marry one of us off to him as a marriage alliance?”

“Nope,” Izaya says. “He’s betrothed already.”

“Oh.” Mairu sounds deflated for a moment; then Kururi says “Brother,” and Izaya can almost hear Mairu’s excitement spike back. “That’s a great idea! Maybe Father can marry  _you_  off to the blond one and then  _we_  can come and seduce his brother and his new wife into an orgy!”

Izaya snorts. “Try again, Mairu. You need to pay more attention to political intrigue if that’s the best you can come up with.”

Mairu heaves a sigh. “But you  _like_  each other, don’t you?”

“We do not,” Izaya says, and looks up from his plate to meet Mairu’s gaze again. “We hate each other.”

Mairu frowns, her forehead creasing on disagreement even before she voices a protest. “He keeps asking about you,” she says. “Why would he care about someone he hates?”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “ _I_  hate him, that should be enough.”

“Liar,” Kururi whispers.

“And that’s enough from you two,” Izaya goes on smoothly. “Go away and find some guards to play with or something so I can eat my breakfast in peace.” He reaches out to press his palm to Mairu’s forehead and push her back over the span of the table; she goes willingly enough, tipping to slide down and off the chair without further urging from Izaya.

“Alright,” she says. “Come on, Kururi. We know when we’re not wanted.”

“Why did you come over here in the first place then?” Izaya asks as Mairu pulls at the back of Kururi’s chair to draw her back from the table as Kururi replaces the napkin she has been holding on her lap. Mairu rolls her eyes dramatically at Izaya’s comment; Kururi looks up to meet his gaze and sticks out her tongue at him, which gesture Izaya answers in kind.

“Fine,” Mairu says, and reaches out to take Kururi’s hand. “Have your boring breakfast by yourself, we don’t care.”

“Thank you for your benevolence, o noble ruler,” Izaya says. “Now go away.” Mairu opens her mouth as if to say something else and Izaya lifts his hand to shoo the twins away; it’s Kururi who moves, this time, turning to walk away from the table and pulling Mairu in her wake before her more talkative sister can find something else to offer as retort. Izaya watches them go until they’re far enough away to keep any of their comments out of his earshot and they’re turning back in towards each other; it’s only then that he turns back to lean in over his plate and reach to sip against the edge of his barely-cooled cup of tea.

There’s no one to see him now but his sisters, and they’re caught up in each other again; but Mairu’s words --  _stares at you every time you’re in a room together_  -- are enough to ease Izaya into self-aware elegance in spite of his present lack of audience.

He never knows who might ask after him, after all.


	8. Armistice

Izaya isn’t particularly fond of his walks around the castle. They’re boring, for one thing; there’s nothing to do while he’s pacing out over familiar hallways or along well-known corridors, no way he can lose himself in the pages of a book or the details of some history. There’s nothing to occupy his mind or his attention except the immediate reality of his body aching with every step he takes, with every motion he makes to remind him of the gap between what he had and what he has, between how easily he used to be able to traverse these halls and how strugglingly impossible the same is now. But Namie insists that this is part of his recovery, and threatens to take him out on them herself if he refuses to do them in his free time; and however much Izaya may dislike the boredom of walking in silence he’d far rather have his thoughts to himself than face whatever Namie might say while leading her captive audience through the prescribed distance. So when Namie tells him he needs to walk he huffs, and rolls his eyes, and grumbles a protest; and the next time he has an hour to himself he rings for a servant to accompany him on exactly that.

The servant offers no conversation of her own. Izaya could urge her into it, if he wanted to; but the self-consciousness of having someone there to see him hobble through the motions that used to be so effortless is hard enough to ignore when he’s putting his whole focus on it, and he can hardly pretend the steady hold supporting his arm isn’t there if he’s actually trying to hold up even a minimal dialogue. So he stays quiet, and she follows his lead in the same, only offering questions as to his intended directions when they pause at hallways for Izaya to catch his breath and decide if he needs to turn around or not. Izaya isn’t thinking about the orders he gives as they make their way through the palace -- his feet are leading him more than his thoughts, in his direction as well as the speed of his pace -- until coming up to one of the wide doors leading outside is more a surprise than anything else. Izaya draws to a halt, even though he hardly needs the break as yet; it’s while he’s staring up at the doors before him that the servant shifts at his side and clears her throat with careful intention.

“Your Highness,” she says, her tone precise and cool and perfectly distant. “Did you wish to turn back to return to your quarters?”

Izaya doesn’t look at her. His attention is fixed on the weight of the doors before him, the solid dark of the entrance keeping him within the boundaries of the castle, inside the same fixed routes he has been following since his release from the infirmary after Numora’s loss in the war. He’s spent hours gazing out the library window, or the glass in his bedroom, watching the leaves turn and the servants and nobles wander through the smooth-raked paths and curving lines of trees and flowers alike; when he thought of joining them it was always with an edge of bitterness, more recalling the reason he is limited to the shortest paths from bedroom to library to infirmary and back again than truly thinking of returning to those places himself with any sense of reality. But now the doors are before him, and his legs are under him; and for the first time in long, long months, Izaya feels a flicker of what he doesn’t dare to quite call hope. He tightens his hold on the servant’s arm, bracing his grip to balance himself over his shaky legs; and then he lifts his head, and he straightens his shoulders, and he drops himself into his most regal tone.

“No,” he says, and lifts his free hand to gesture towards the doors. “Take me out into the gardens.” The servant hesitates, whether on uncertainty or surprise Izaya doesn’t know which; but he doesn’t let his facade shift, and after a moment she ducks her head in agreement and moves to lead him forward towards the door.

It’s colder outside than Izaya was expecting. The trees have shifted to gold and reds, have given up their summery green for the flame-colored patterns of autumn; but for all the suggested heat of their coloring the air is biting, chill with a hint of frost at the edges that Izaya can feel raise goosebumps all across his arms and tense his shoulders in involuntary reaction to it. At his side the servant hesitates again, her footsteps stalling as they step through the doors with the easy support of her arm to brace Izaya’s stumbling gait.

“Your Highness,” she says. “Do you need a coat? We could turn back for one.”

Izaya does. His shoulders are tense, he can feel himself losing body heat with every breath he takes; he won’t be able to stay out for more than a few minutes as it is, and even then he’ll be shivering for an hour if he doesn’t indulge in the warmth of a bath to bring heat back into his body. But his legs are shaking too, from exhaustion instead of cold; and if they turn back now, he knows absolutely he won’t have the energy to make out here again. Even standing still is an effort, as if he can feel his chance at mobility draining away with every minute he stays on his feet; so he shakes his head, and braces his shoulders, and pushes aside his awareness of the cold for as long as he can stand to ignore it.

“No,” he says. “We’ll continue.” And he takes a step forward, urging the servant to move with him as he steps away from the shadows of the castle and out into the endless space of the open sky overhead.

Izaya doesn’t think about where he’s going. The servant at his side has lapsed back into silence, retreating into her role as his support with the declaration of his decision; it’s overwhelming just to be outside again, to have the chill of the wind against his skin and ruffling through his hair as he moves forward and away from the weight of the palace at his back. There’s the smell of autumn in the air, of dried leaves and the hint of a storm still days away from breaking over the smooth dark of the castle itself; Izaya tips his head up to look at the bright, crystalline blue of the sky overhead and lets his feet guide themselves, trusting to the support at his arm to keep him from tripping over unexpectedly uneven ground. They turn away from the castle, leaving the weight of the doors behind them as Izaya moves forward and along the smooth guidance of the pathways around them, and the servant moves with him, neither hesitating nor protesting as Izaya cuts away from the palace and out towards the open space of the fields and gardens surrounding it.

Izaya is caught up in the tremor in his legs, in the effort he can feel thrumming at his knees and aching in his hips with every step he takes; he’s not focusing on his direction, not thinking about where years-old habit is drawing him. He just keeps moving, walking away across the palace grounds with his unresisting support at his side; and then he turns a corner, and he lifts his head, and his forward motion stops instantly as he sees the structure of a wooden fence outlining a practice ground, and the smooth of hard-packed dirt beaten down by the scuff of boots circling around each other, and the yellow hair of the man leaning hard against the edge of the fence and gazing at the empty space as if there’s more there to see than a heap of practice weapons and the prints of long-gone combatants laid in the earth before him.

Shizuo hasn’t seen him. Izaya is still some distance away, out of earshot and out of range of Shizuo’s focused gaze; he could turn on his heel now, could back away around the corner with the excuse of cold, or exhaustion, or boredom, or any number of reasons he can feel forming at the back of his tongue as quickly as he considers them. He could slip away again, could go unseen and unremarked; but he stands where he is instead, staring at the wind ruffling through Shizuo’s hair like fingers trying to tug the locks free of their ponytail, watching the weight of the other’s coat drape to elegance across his shoulders. The chill of the air is forgotten, the ache in Izaya’s legs evaporated from his attention as if it has simply ceased to exist; and then, from his side, there’s a shift of weight as the servant adjusts her feet, and Izaya comes back to himself in a rush. He’s standing just at the corner of the training ground, shaking on his feet and with his gaze fixed full on the back of the visiting Boscan prince; if Shizuo turns around from whatever thought he’s lost in he will see Izaya staring at him, will see the full force of the other’s attention fixed on his shoulders. Izaya’s thoughts flicker over his own appearance, from the fall of his hair and the fit of his loose shirt down to the soft of his shoes and the tremor in his legs; and then his attention centers on the grip of his hand at the servant’s arm, the lean that gives away his weakness without any hope of hiding it.

“Go back inside, Haruna,” Izaya says without turning. It takes conscious effort to ease his hold on the servant’s arm; when he straightens the blow of his full weight settling over his legs flashes his vision to white for a moment and nearly sends him toppling sideways again. He blinks hard to shed the haze from his vision, shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and he stays on his feet, standing alone and unsupported by any but his own power. “I’ll make my own way back.”

The servant clears her throat. “Are you quite sure, Your Highness?”

It’s a fair question. Izaya can hardly blame her for asking it; he doesn’t have a good answer for the inquiry himself. He has no idea how he’s going to make it back inside, has no conception of how much longer the strength of his uncertain legs will support him; but he shakes his head, and lifts his chin, and steadies himself into all the royal self-assurance he has ever been master of.

“I’m sure,” he lies. “You’re dismissed.” Haruna takes an obedient step back, ducking her head and dipping into a polite curtsey; Izaya waits until she’s turning away before he takes a breath and braces himself to move forward. His foot slips, his leg shakes; but when the force of his motion runs up against the tentative strength of his body his joints hold steady, his balance pushes back to keep him upright. Izaya lets his breath go, a silent huff of heat to lose itself in the cool of the air around him; and then he takes another step, and closes the distance between himself and Shizuo.

He’s moving silently. Izaya’s footing might not be anything like as secure as it once was, and his body might be in constant danger of dropping him fully to the earth beneath him; but what he lacks in grace he makes up for with deliberate slowness, easing his way forward so he can be sure of every step as he moves. There’s no way anyone could possibly hear him coming, no way the sound of his feet touching the ground could be picked out from the ambient sounds around him; Shizuo can have no knowledge of his approach in sight or hearing either one. But still: as Izaya closes the distance Shizuo’s shoulders tense, the other’s position edging tighter on strain with every whisper-soft step Izaya takes, and Izaya’s still a few feet out when Shizuo catches a breath and twists in a rush, as rapidly as if Izaya had shouted his name. Shizuo’s eyes are wide, his mouth soft; for a moment there’s the ache of something wanting in his gaze, like the hope of something so fragile it’s being dashed by reality as fast as it forms. Izaya can see the moment Shizuo sees him, can watch the dawn of shock break wide over the pained resignation behind the other’s eyes; his feet stop of their own accord, drawing to stillness to brace him steady where he stands some distance from Shizuo. For a moment they just stay like that, gazing full at each other from over the gap between them; then Izaya tips his head towards the training grounds, and raises an eyebrow along with the very corner of his mouth. “Reminding yourself of fond memories?”

Shizuo snorts, the almost-laugh loud enough that Izaya can hear it clearly from where he’s standing. “I wouldn’t call them fond, exactly.” He turns his head to look out at the practice field; after a moment his shoulders follow too, his body tipping forward to return to its lean against the top rail of the fence. “Just persistent.”

Izaya takes another step forward. His footing is far less even now than it was before; he’s glad that Shizuo isn’t looking at him to see the struggle he makes with his balance with each step. Shizuo keeps looking out over the empty field as the other approaches; even when Izaya draws up next to him and reaches out to touch his hand to brace at the support of the fence alongside the other, Shizuo only glances sideways at him for a moment before ducking his head and looking back at his hands. Izaya reaches out to catch the fence in both hands, leaning as hard against it as he can while still making the motion look casual instead of necessary; his sleeve brushes against the weight of Shizuo’s coat alongside him. He doesn’t turn his head to look.

There’s a pause. Izaya can hear the rush of the wind around the edges of building, can pick out the rustle of it through trees too distant to be seen; he doesn’t feel the cold of it at all, doesn’t feel any desire to turn around and struggle back over the empty space between himself and the castle walls. It’s enough that he’s standing for now, enough that he’s here to fix his gaze on the empty practice field so much like the one miles and a lifetime away, enough that he can feel his heart pounding like a drum in his chest from what he tells himself is exertion.

Shizuo takes a breath alongside him. “Do you miss it?”

Izaya doesn’t turn his head to look at the expression on Shizuo’s face, doesn’t glance to see if Shizuo is watching him, to see if those dark eyes are tracking the details of his reaction, are clinging to the lines of his face like a touch. “It’s in the past,” he doesn’t-answer instead. “It’s beyond my abilities now.” He leans harder against the press of his hands at the fence; under him his legs tremble, his ankles ache with the burden of his weight. “If you’re looking for a sparring partner you’ll need to find someone else.”

“I’m not--” Shizuo starts before he cuts himself off with a huff of frustration. Izaya does glance at him sideways, then; Shizuo has a hand up to push through his hair, ruffling against the strands with no consideration for the way they’re meant to lie smooth against his head while he grimaces out of whatever it was he was going to say. He lets his hand fall, starts to turn his head to look at Izaya again; Izaya looks back out and away to the training grounds, fixing his gaze unseeing on the hard-packed dirt. Shizuo sighs an exhale; when he takes another breath it sounds like he’s bracing himself for some intimidating task. “You can walk.”

“Astutely noted,” Izaya says. “What was your first clue?”

“You know what I mean,” Shizuo says, with more gentleness than bite on the words. “I wasn’t sure after that first day, when you weren’t on the tour of the gardens.”

“I hate nature,” Izaya says blandly. “At least my physical condition gives me an excuse to get out of entertaining boring visitors.”

“Yeah?” Shizuo says. He shifts against the fence next to Izaya but it’s only to turn around, not to pull away; when he leans back against the railing to recline against the support his elbow is almost touching Izaya’s fingers. “You didn’t seem to care much about finding an excuse in Boscan.”

“No,” Izaya agrees. “In Boscan I  _was_  the boring visitor imposing my will upon my suffering hosts.” He tips his head to flash a smirk at Shizuo; Shizuo’s watching him already, his head angled to the side and his mouth curving on a smile of his own. They only hold each other’s gaze for a moment; then Shizuo’s smile flickers, his focus slips down from Izaya’s eyes, and Izaya turns his head to look back out at the field again as smoothly as if on a cue.

Shizuo clears his throat. “Izaya,” he says. His voice is very nearly gentle. Izaya is glad he’s looking out at the field instead of seeing the expression that goes along with that tone. “How bad is it?”

Izaya lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I can stand,” he says. “I can walk a little ways, if I have someone to lean on.” He lets his weight bear down harder against his grip at the fence, lets the angle of his straining wrists come into slightly clearer focus. “I manage.”

There’s a pause. Izaya can feel Shizuo’s gaze on him; he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t meet the focus he can feel drawing over him, taking stock of the whole of his position from his braced-out feet to the strain in his shoulders as he leans in over the edge of the fence. There’s any number of details Shizuo could comment upon, a minor infinity of conversational turns he could take; Izaya doesn’t have a means to escape as they are, has no way to stage an outright retreat as he has on their previous interactions. But there’s just silence, a quiet tense with possibilities that slide past untaken; and then Shizuo turns his head to look back over the distance towards the castle, and when he clears his throat Izaya can feel a rush of relief at this reprieve even before Shizuo speaks.

“Do you want a hand back to the castle?” Shizuo asks. Izaya ducks his head to look at the other through the fall of his hair; Shizuo is gazing into the distance, his forehead creased on the same tension pulling down at the corners of his mouth, but his shoulders are as relaxed as his hands, the languid weight of his fingers marking the strain in his face as something other than the frustration it might seem otherwise. He grimaces into the pause after his words and ducks his head to frown at his boots as he scuffs a toe against the dirt underfoot. “Or I could go and ask a servant to come back out instead, if you’d rather have help from someone else.”

There’s a long pause. Izaya gazes at the line of Shizuo’s profile: the straight of his nose, the shift of his lips, the curl of his lashes. There’s a lock of hair making a bid for freedom from the curl of yellow tied at the back of his neck; Izaya watches it catch in the wind before Shizuo reaches up to push it roughly behind his ear. Shizuo’s hand weights at the back of his neck, he takes a breath to break the strain of the quiet; and:

“Sure,” Izaya says, with as much offhand ease as he can muster for the word. It’s not much, under the circumstances, but from how immediately Shizuo’s gaze swings up to meet his it’s unlikely the other is going to notice his lack of composure. Izaya doesn’t look away as Shizuo’s eyes meet his; he just stares at the other’s shock, watching the way the light catches a suggestion of green around the deep brown of Shizuo’s irises. “I’d like to make it inside before I freeze, at least.”

It’s utterly transparent, as far as excuses go; but Shizuo doesn’t call Izaya out on it, and Izaya doesn’t tell him how grateful he is.


	9. Salutation

Izaya’s wearing a coat the next time he ventures outside.

He’s far better prepared in general. He makes his way straight through the palace hallways, for one thing, without wasting any of his carefully metered strength on inefficient routes or unnecessary detours; and for another he has an order issued even before he calls in one of the palace guards to help him through the halls and out to the crisp golden leaves and chill wind of the garden. It takes some time for Mikage to conclude the training she’s leading and arrive to help him down from his alcove in the library to the main doors of the castle, and by the time they’re stepping outside Izaya can see the arrangement he’s requested ready and waiting for him under one of the wide-spreading trees in the main garden. The blanket is inviting enough, spread out in the dappled sunlight under the tree and surrounded by golden leaves; with a tea tray and glowing brazier at the corner of it to chase away the bite in the air, Izaya can think of very few places more inviting. Mikage steers him towards it at once, without needing to be told where to aim, and upon arrival she catches at his arm to brace him to solid stability while he works through the complexities of lowering himself to sit carefully against the spread of the blanket beneath him. Izaya stretches his legs out in front of him, feeling the twinge of effort aching through his calves but stalling short of true pain; when he braces his hands behind him to steady himself he feels very nearly comfortable, in spite of the relative inconvenience of the situation.

“This will be sufficient,” he declares, and lifts his hand to gesture Mikage away. “That will be all, thank you.”

Mikage straightens into the braced-shoulder precision she always offers to these kinds of orders, as if she’s adopting the habit of her usual role in spite of her present duties. “Of course, Your Highness,” she says, but she doesn’t move away. “When would you like to be collected to return inside?”

“I can manage myself,” Izaya says with the loftiest tone he can attain.

Mikage doesn’t move. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I cannot leave you stranded out here without an escort to bring you inside when you wish.”

Izaya rolls his eyes as dramatically as he can, even if Mikage’s flat expression doesn’t so much as flicker. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m sure I can find someone to help me back inside.”

Mikage’s shoulders tighten, her chin lifts higher. “Your Highness--”

“I order you to leave me to my own devices,” Izaya says, with some measure of sharpness on his tone. Mikage blinks, her gaze swinging down to meet his stare fully rather than sliding up and over the top of his head; Izaya takes a breath and does his best to steady himself into the illusion of composure. “In fact,” he says. “I order you to keep any of the servants from disturbing me. Take up a post inside the doors and make sure no one comes out this way for the next two hours.”

Mikage’s lashes dip, her expression goes so flat Izaya can all but sense the judgment behind her entirely unreadable gaze. “Your Highness,” she says with perfect calm on her tone. “Is this an attempt to prove your independence?”

“It doesn’t matter what this is,” Izaya tells her, and lifts a hand to point towards the doors. “You have your orders.” Mikage gazes at him for a moment, as if to let the weight of her silence speak for her; and then she ducks forward into a formal bow, the edges of the action as crisp as any of those offered by the guards under her command.

“As you will, Your Highness,” she says; and then she turns on her heel and moves back towards the doors to the palace. Izaya watches her go, waiting until he’s seen the burden of the door close in her wake before he breathes a sigh of relief and lets the tension ease from his shoulders. Mikage might be less passive than Haruna, to be sure; but Izaya can count on her to do what she’s ordered to do, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter. If he tells her to keep interruptions out of this portion of the garden, then she will do so absolutely, and she has the ability to guarantee the success of her attempts at such. Izaya can relax into his situation here, with the branches of the trees curving overhead and the warmth of the heater radiating out to chase away the chill in the air; and he can turn towards the tea tray, can busy himself with the illusion of occupation while he waits for his company to arrive.

It takes Shizuo some time to return. The gardens are expansive and wandering; depending on his path he could lose a full hour to pacing out their routes, perhaps longer if he lingers over the more striking of the flower beds or the neat lines of the orchards. Izaya carefully doesn’t look for him, doesn’t admit any show of waiting for anyone else at all; he has his tea to keep him busy, after all, and the brazier to keep him warm, and the tension of expectation in his chest to keep his heart skipping a little faster than it ought, a little faster than he’d like to admit. But there’s no one to see him, no one to walk by and comment on his unusual choice of locale for his midafternoon tea, thanks to Mikage’s work inside; and Izaya is just reaching to pour a refill into the translucent-thin porcelain of his teacup when there’s the sound of steady footsteps approaching, boots crunching over autumn-crisp leaves as their owner returns back through the winding paths of the neighboring garden. Izaya sets the teapot down and reaches to catch a drip of tea at the spout at the tip of his finger and bring it to his mouth to suck clean, and it’s just as he’s pressing his touch against his lips that those footsteps stutter to a halt, and the sound of a sharp inhale gives away the arrival of the interruption Izaya has been counting on since he pulled on the weight of the elegant coat draping over his shoulders.

Izaya doesn’t look up right away. He lingers over his motion for a moment, letting his touch cling against his mouth before he reaches out to touch at the handle of his teacup and steady it into unnecessary precision against the delicate curve of the saucer beneath it; it’s only once the tea is rippling tiny waves against the edge of the porcelain that he lets his hand fall and reaches behind himself to brace his hands against the blanket. He leans into the support behind him, and lets his shoulder tip back into graceful unconcern, and it’s then he lifts his head to meet Shizuo’s gaze with a complete lack of surprise at finding the other staring at him.

Shizuo has stopped dead in the entrance to the garden. He must have been on his way back from wandering through the smooth-paved paths that cut through the flowerbeds and the grassy knolls holding trees and falls of golden leaves; Izaya saw him pass through this first garden from the library window above them almost an hour ago, had seen him stride away through the curving stone arch with enough force as if he intended to outwalk some sticky thought or some unpleasant memory. He had to return here eventually, after pacing out whatever excess energy he’s been carrying in himself; and now he’s standing stock still at the far side of the garden, staring at Izaya as if he’s never seen another human being before. Izaya doesn’t speak and doesn’t move; he just meets Shizuo’s gaze stare-for-stare, keeping his expression fixed into the calm mask he’s been settling into for the last ten minutes, until finally Shizuo takes a breath and lifts his head to speak.

“Sorry,” he says, the word coming with so much force it sounds closer to anger than the apology it’s meant as. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“They are my gardens,” Izaya points out. It’s a reach of his authority but it suffices to prove the point, at least; Shizuo certainly doesn’t protest the claim. “If you wished to have me confined to a cell you should have stated so in the terms of surrender.”

Shizuo shakes his head sharply. “No,” he says. “That’s not what I mean. I’m just--” He hunches his shoulders and pushes his hands hard into his pockets. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

Izaya gazes at Shizuo for another moment. Shizuo’s frowning at the path in front of his feet, his forehead creasing and his lips drawing down on tension; his weight is rocking back, as if he’s thinking of backing right out of the garden the way he came in. Izaya lingers in the strain of the moment, watching the discomfort lift in Shizuo’s shoulders and settle into the other’s face; and then he takes a breath and heaves a sigh dramatic enough that the sound of it will carry to where Shizuo is standing.

“Are you going to come over here then?” he asks.

Shizuo’s head comes up at once, his weight tips even farther back. “What?”

Izaya lifts a hand to gesture at the tea tray. “It is tea time,” he drawls. “There is tea. For drinking.”

Shizuo doesn’t return from his almost-retreat. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

Izaya rolls his eyes ostentatiously. “Then go inside,” he says, and swings his hand out to gesture to the door Mikage vanished through. “Though you’ll have to come closer than that to manage it. I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust to my physical state that I won’t stab you in the back as you go past.”

Shizuo huffs a breath. It’s a soft sound, barely audible from the distance of the garden; it sounds like it might be something like a laugh. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Of course you’re not,” Izaya says, and reaches for the saucer holding his cup of tea. “Is it the trappings of civilization that have you so skittish, then?”

“No,” Shizuo says, and he does take a step forward, then, moving away from the archway behind him and towards Izaya’s position.

Izaya lifts his teacup in a mocking toast. “Bravely done, Your Highness. Continue on like that and you may escape past me while I’m still finishing the last of the desserts.” That pulls at the corner of Shizuo’s mouth to drag the other’s expression towards something like a smile; Izaya lets his own smirk break free at his lips as he takes a sip of his tea. “Stop dancing around and sit down.”

Shizuo does. Izaya only watches him approach for the first few steps, enough to be sure he’s on his way; then he turns back to the tea tray to set his own cup down and turn the extra one right-side over from where it has been laid upside down on its saucer to save it from dust or stray leaves. He’s pouring the tea to fill the curve of porcelain while Shizuo draws up to the edge of the blanket and hesitates, as if he’s uncertain how literally he ought to take Izaya’s invitation.

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least do the thing properly,” Izaya says without looking up from what he’s doing. “Or do you intend to loom over me for this entire conversation?” That’s enough to jostle Shizuo back into movement, at least, and Izaya is setting the pot down and lifting the saucer in one hand by the time Shizuo is dropping to sit on the other side of the blanket under him. Izaya turns as quickly as Shizuo sits; he’s offering the cup to the other almost before Shizuo has crossed his legs to steady himself in his position. “Here.”

Shizuo lifts his hands to take the cup, offering both palms face-up like he’s unsure of his ability to balance the saucer with the same easy grace Izaya is showing. Izaya’s fingertips skim against Shizuo’s skin, their hands layer one atop the other for a moment as he hands off the weight of the teacup; and then Izaya lets it go and pulls his hand free without hesitating over the friction that runs up his arm to tingle sensation against his chest as if Shizuo’s skin is as much a source of heat as the brazier at his feet. Shizuo is left staring at the teacup in his hands, looking as off-balance as Izaya feels when he’s on his feet. “I don’t really drink tea.”

“Did I ask?” Izaya says. Shizuo’s hair looks brighter from this near, his lashes thicker with the crisp autumn air to bring them into focus; Izaya looks away, turning deliberately towards his cup as he brings it back towards his lips. “It’s just one cup of tea. Drink it to be polite.”

Shizuo looks back down to the cup. After a moment he shifts his hands, carefully tipping the saucer to the side so he can brace the weight of it against one palm and catch the handle in the other to raise the porcelain to his mouth. Izaya watches Shizuo blow the cloud of steam away from the surface of the cup, watches him brace the curve of the rim just against the soft give of his lower lip, watches the shift against the line of the other’s throat as he swallows; and then he ducks his head to look away again and hide his own expression in the excuse of a delicate sip of his own tea while Shizuo is emerging from his own with a grimace of distaste.

“You really drink it like this?” Shizuo asks. “Don’t you add any sugar or milk or anything?”

Izaya tilts his head to the side and raises an eyebrow in answer to Shizuo’s question. “And hide the flavor? What would be the point?” He takes another deliberate sip without breaking eye contact; Shizuo’s gaze flickers away from Izaya’s for a moment, skimming over the edge of the cup and the line of Izaya’s fingers as the other moves. Izaya lingers in the motion without shifting and distracting away Shizuo’s focus; and then he lowers his cup back to his saucer and sets it down with a _clink_ to punctuate the sigh he heaves.

“Here,” he says, and turns to reach out for the tea tray again to lift the cover off the heap of pastries set alongside the pot of tea itself so he can draw one free and onto a plate of its own. “Eat this, if you must have something sweet.”

Shizuo reaches to take the plate obediently enough; but there’s a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth as he looks at Izaya with far more interest than the food. “What about you?”

Izaya lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t like sweets,” he says. “I don’t know why the servants insist on bringing them to me whenever I ask for tea. Better that they not go to waste, anyway.”

Izaya isn’t completely sure Shizuo will let this pass. There’s a crease at the other’s forehead as he stares at Izaya, a tension at the corners of his mouth that says he remains less than fully convinced by the other’s claim. But Izaya just lifts his teacup to his lips again to punctuate his statement, making the whole motion as elegant and unselfconscious as he can possibly manage, and after a moment Shizuo sets the plate down next to him so he can pick up the pastry and take a bite of it. Izaya can feel the motion like a weight lifting off his shoulders, with all the relief of knowing his claim will be allowed to stand, and when he next takes a breath he can feel his assumed relaxation easing into the sincerity of the emotion, as if the tension of adrenaline in him is melting away as easily as the chill in the air is giving way to the brazier by his feet.

Izaya serves Shizuo another pastry as soon as he’s done with the first one, and without asking for confirmation; but Shizuo’s smile says he doesn’t mind the presumption, and he doesn’t hesitate in starting in on that one as well. Izaya pauses to refill his teacup while Shizuo is occupied, pouring the dark of the liquid with more of a flourish than the motion requires; Shizuo watches him sideways, his gaze fixing to the movement of Izaya’s wrist with so much intensity Izaya feels the whole action like a performance, as if he’s putting on a show for the other’s attention. He sets the teapot down deliberately, careful with the weight of it; it’s not until he lifts his teacup out in a tiny gesture towards Shizuo that the other’s gaze comes back up to meet his eyes with startled haste. Izaya lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, a smirk taut with teasing awareness as he tips his cup out in another unspoken toast. Shizuo blinks, hesitates; and then moves to set his pastry down and reach for the handle of his own teacup to raise it from the saucer.

Their glasses only barely touch together in the space between them, but Izaya feels the force of the contact like it’s running warmth through the whole of his body.


	10. Grace

Namie doesn’t come to the library the next day.

This is something of a surprise. Usually she’ll drop by sometime in the morning, even if it’s only to return a book and throw an insult or some other biting commentary in Izaya’s general direction; any reprieve Izaya might have hoped to receive by his by-now-regular efforts towards healing has utterly failed to materialize, which is not much of a surprise, in the end. If anything Namie is the more savage in her remarks, as if she’s convinced it’s only the emotional trauma of her first round of insults that drove Izaya towards physical progress in the first place, until by now Izaya almost dreads her arrival. She’s sure to offer some kind of comment on the cut of his shirt, or the angle of his pose, or the novel he’s reading, attributing one or all unnecessarily to the presence of their visitors. It’s hardly as if the only reason for Izaya to do anything is their Boscan guests; the fact that he’s feeling better day to day, that his legs ache less and his mood is improving with every extra half-hour he finds he can stay on his feet, has more to do he is sure with his efforts towards improvement than anything else. Not that he’s likely to tell Namie the same and thus admit that she was right on that point all along; but he admits it in his own head, at least, even if he presses his mouth tight on the words rather than running the risk of giving them voice.

He’s intending to go to the infirmary soon himself, in any case. Regardless of Namie’s presence or otherwise, he’s more than capable of running through the generic boredom promised by his now-daily routine of exercises even without an audience. In the past few days he’s gained a measure of mobility enough to bring him nearly all the way to the hospital wing on his own power; he can lay claim to a servant along the way to help him the last distance, or perhaps take a break against a chair partway there to catch his breath and some measure of his strength back. In either case there’s no point in lingering in the library, not when there are other places he could be and other things he could be doing; so Izaya draws the thin ribbon of a bookmark down between the pages before him, and braces his hand against the edge of the table to push himself to his feet with painful intent.

It’s always hard to move again after a span of time sitting still. His legs protest the action, his muscles knotting and cramping with the sudden motion after the long period of immobility; Izaya is grateful to the support of the table as much as to the lack of an audience at the moment as he hisses a breath past his teeth and leans hard against the support, relying on the strength of his arms to keep him upright while he waits for the agony of pins-and-needles running up and down his legs to ease. The pain flares high, sparking up his spine and gripping at the back of his skull like the vice of a sudden, intense headache; and Izaya shuts his eyes, and breathes deep, and lets the pressure go without trying to fight back against it. It lingers for a long moment, as if it’s exploring the space of his body, as if it’s trying on the shape of his limbs and his psyche around itself; and then it loses interest, and gives way to leave him trembling with relief like a chill washing over the whole of his skin. Izaya straightens, carefully, settling himself back into comfort over his own two legs; and when the pain stays gone he eases the hunch in his shoulders, and lifts his head, and makes his slow way towards the door.

He’s not thinking about his appearance as he pulls the weight of the door open to step through and into the hall outside. It’s true that his face is probably a little paler than usual, that there are residual signs of the pain of standing clinging to the corners of his eyes and the give of his lips; but there’s hardly ever anyone in this wing of the castle, as distant as it is from the main halls leading from one audience room to another, and with Namie still absent Izaya isn’t expecting to run into anyone at all. He’s more likely to have difficulty in locating someone who can help him over that last distance to the infirmary than in having a sudden audience for his retreat from the seclusion of the library; and then he steps out into the hallway, and there’s a sharp catch of an inhale, and Izaya’s whole body is tensing with sudden self-consciousness even before a too-familiar voice puts shape to his name.

“Izaya!” Shizuo’s not shouting; he hardly needs to, when he’s as close as he is. He must have been approaching down the hallway at the same time Izaya was making his painstaking way across the distance of the library; if Izaya had delayed even a minute longer he thinks Shizuo might have opened the door on him. Shizuo steps forward over the last few feet of distance, coming in close enough that he can and does reach to catch the weight of the door still braced open against Izaya’s hand before he ducks his head to look down at the other in front of him. “You’re here.”

“I am,” Izaya says, somewhat more shortly than he intends to. He can feel discomfort tense across his shoulders and sticking in his throat, can feel the adrenaline of self-consciousness rushing his words and threatening color in his cheeks; he wants to lift a hand to smooth his hair, wants to tug against the edge of his clothes to straighten them, but there is no power on earth sufficient to compel him to do so where Shizuo can see him fretting over the details of his appearance. He lets the door go instead, stepping sideways and past Shizuo with as much elegance as he can muster from his aching legs; it’s not as much as he could hope for, but at least it lets him turn his face away from the too-near draw of the other’s worry-dark eyes. “What are  _ you _ doing here?”

“I met your friend in the hall,” Shizuo says. There’s the scuff of shoes against the floor, the rhythm of steps following in Izaya’s wake. Izaya doesn’t turn around. “The one who wears the white coat. She said I could find you in the library.”

Izaya huffs a breath through his nose without looking back. “Is everyone in the castle conniving behind my back?”

“What?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Izaya says immediately. “Namie isn’t my friend. Obviously, since she sold out my last private retreat.”

Shizuo’s footsteps catch, his boots scuff on the floor as if to speak to his slowing steps. “I’m not trying to bother you.”

“Could have fooled me,” Izaya mumbles. He’s walking a little too fast; he can feel the strain trembling up his legs with every step he takes. He slows his stride a little and ducks his head to glance back over his shoulder. “What did you want, anyway?”

Shizuo blinks. He looks shocked, as if Izaya has suddenly cast a spotlight on him in the hallway. “Huh?”

“Namie told you I was in the library,” Izaya says, and pivots on his heel to twist and face Shizuo directly. The turn interrupts Shizuo’s forward motion; he stumbles in his haste to stop himself before tumbling right into Izaya in front of him, but Izaya doesn’t so much as rock backwards to avoid the possibility of collision, just stays where he is staring up at Shizuo through the dark of his lashes while Shizuo catches himself enough to look down and meet his gaze. “You were looking for me, right?” He spreads his arms at his sides and lifts his chin as if to make a show of his presence. “You found me. What did you want?”

Shizuo stands still for a moment, his hands slack at his sides; then his forehead creases, his head ducks down. When he grimaces the expression comes with a flicker of color across his face, the start of a flush bleeding out across his skin. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Izaya repeats. He lets his hands fall to his sides; in front of him Shizuo’s gaze slides up to follow the motion and meet Izaya’s flat stare. “Are you just trying to make my life miserable, then?”

Shizuo hisses past his teeth as if Izaya has scored a point against him. “I don’t want to make you miserable.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you?” he asks. “Are you just revelling in your previous success at such, then?”

“ _ God _ ,” Shizuo groans, and lifts his head entirely as he brings a hand up to shove roughly through the fall of his hair. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry?”

Izaya’s breathing catches, his shoulders tense. He can feel his whole body going taut as if his blood is turning to steel in his veins, as if the tremor in his legs is that of a drawn-back bowstring instead of just muscles exhausted by too much use. Shizuo’s hand pushes down over the back of his neck, his arm falls to his side with all the weight of resignation. He looks tired, Izaya can see it in the illumination filling the hallway; there are shadows under his eyes, a strain against his mouth, lines of tension that Izaya doesn’t remember seeing before in the smooth corridors of the Boscan castle or the summer-bright dust of the training ground that caught the print of their feet. It’s still true that he’s standing easier than Izaya is, that his movements are coming with the same casual strength that used to draw a smile to Izaya’s face instead of a grimace, that used to spark adrenaline warm in his veins instead of the chill of bitter memory; but there’s a weight in his shoulders, now, as if he’s bearing a burden of his own akin to the one their fight left so scarred into Izaya’s own body. It prickles something down Izaya’s spine, catches his breath on the outline of something too vague and ghostly for him to lay to clarity in his mind; and then Shizuo’s gaze rises to meet his own, and Izaya takes a breath, and parts his lips to let himself speak. “You haven’t.”

Shizuo blinks. The weight of resignation in his expression gives way, something behind his eyes softens; he looks startled out of his own unhappiness, as if Izaya’s words have shoved him bodily into some experience he had forgotten how to claim for himself. “What?”

“You haven’t,” Izaya repeats. He lifts his chin, lets his shoulders straighten, forces his hands to relax at his sides. “You haven’t said you’re sorry.”

Shizuo stares at him. “Oh.” He blinks, his attention sliding away as he visibly considers their previous interactions. “I haven’t?”

Izaya shakes his head. The corner of his mouth tightens on the flicker of an almost-laugh; he lets it. “I’m confident I would remember.”

“Oh.” Shizuo frowns at nothing, his expression giving clarity to his internal monologue as if his thoughts are being printed across his face; and then he blinks hard, and shakes his head like he’s dragging himself back into the span of his own body. “Well. I’m sorry.” He looks up to meet Izaya’s gaze; Izaya just stares at him in silence, letting the tension go taut until Shizuo huffs an exhale of irritation. “What?”

“Is that it?” Izaya asks flatly. “You put me in the hospital for weeks before I could even be moved to my quarters. It’s only in the last month that I’ve been able to even think of walking again, and you just want to wave your hand and be done with it?” He huffs a breath and half-turns to continue on down the hallway. “Get on your knees and beg my forgiveness and maybe I’ll consider it.” Izaya turns away, tipping his head to watch where he’s going instead of looking back at Shizuo scowling at him; he has to just to make sure he doesn’t trip, just to gauge the rise of the floor underfoot enough to clear the tiles with his steps. He can feel the minor victory of the moment like wine surging hot through his veins, like alcohol burning sweet at the back of his tongue; he thinks he could skip with satisfaction, if his half-healed body would allow for it. Enough to have the last word, enough to land such a decisive response; and then:

“ _ Izaya _ ,” Shizuo says, his voice breaking into something strange and desperate in his throat, and there’s the thud of a boot hitting the floor, the warmth of a hand closing hard around Izaya’s wrist. Izaya twists back at the contact, grimacing as he pulls back against Shizuo’s hold; but then he lifts his head, and he sees the way Shizuo is looking at him, and his protest dies at his lips as quickly as the strength for resistance drains from his body.

There’s no frown on Shizuo’s face now, no tight-wound frustration behind his eyes. He’s gazing at Izaya, to be sure; but the shadows of almost-anger are gone from his gaze, stripped away to level out the dark of his eyes into transparency that Izaya can see through as easily as glass, as if he can read Shizuo’s thoughts right from the dip of his lashes and the tremor of his parted lips. Shizuo’s gaze draws over Izaya’s face, wandering against the lines of the other’s features as if he intends to memorize them; and then his attention lets the set of Izaya’s lips go, and he ducks his head as his grip on Izaya’s wrist goes slack from the too-tight pressure it was before. Izaya’s eyes widen, his breath catches on sudden, disbelieving understanding; and before him Shizuo ducks his head far forward, and slides a foot back to drop to his knee.

“Izaya,” he says. His voice is softer, like this; Izaya thinks for a brief, wild moment that he’ll lose the other’s words to the curtain of Shizuo’s hair falling around his face, to the thunder of his heartbeat in his own ears. Shizuo’s hand slides down Izaya’s wrist, drawing in and over the texture of the other’s palm and the length of his fingers for a moment before sliding free and falling to his side to leave Izaya’s hand still hovering in midair between them. Izaya can hear the sound of Shizuo taking a breath, can see the effort of it shifting in the other’s shoulders. “I’m sorry for what....” His words flicker to silence; he swallows hard before he goes on again. “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

Izaya stares. His voice is gone, his speech has evaporated; he can’t answer, can’t frame coherency around the structure of a reply. He’s just standing where he is, his legs trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright, his shoulders tight on the strain of remaining on his feet, his whole body drawn into painful effort to stay as tall as possible, to hold to whatever inches of pride he can yet close his desperate hold around; and before him Shizuo is kneeling, is bowing his shoulders and ducking his head with nothing more than the edge of Izaya’s words to urge him to it. Izaya’s hands are empty, he couldn’t wield the weight of a weapon if he tried; and Shizuo is doing what all those taunting matches on the Boscan training grounds never achieved, what the full impact of Izaya’s strength and skill never managed, even when he had the thread of his life hanging in the balance between them.

Shizuo takes a breath. Izaya can hear the way it catches on strain, can hear the effort of it in Shizuo’s throat as clearly as if it’s a shout. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, and there’s a grate under his tone now, a raw edge as if of gravel, or maybe of tears forced back but audible all the same. “You have to believe me. I didn’t want to hurt you, I never intended to--” and his voice cracks, skipping up into a high edge of emotion that drags Izaya’s heart into his throat, that chokes him on a surge of heat rushing through him as if in answer to the strain audible in Shizuo’s chest. Izaya presses his lips together tight, and swallows deliberately, and he stays quiet, and he waits.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Shizuo says, his head ducked down to offer the words to the floor, to spill them like an offering around Izaya’s feet. “I don’t know why you would.” His shoulders hunch, his breath rushes past braced-out teeth. “But I want you to.”

Izaya can hear the breath Shizuo takes, can feel the sound of it shimmer across his skin like winter sunlight, like the crisp edge of autumn in the air. “I’m so sorry, Izaya,” Shizuo says. “Please.” A pause, the drag of a breath. “Please forgive me.”

The silence that falls in the wake of Shizuo’s words is incredible. Izaya can almost taste it in the air as he breathes in, can all but feel it sliding over his skin; when he breathes in it glows at the inside of his chest, spreading out to press at the spaces between his ribs like it’s seeking to break free of his body entirely. Shizuo is on his knees before him, in the position of a petitioner, of a supplicant with desperation on his lips; Izaya feels the power of the moment rush up his spine, feels the strength of his position steady in his legs and lift at his chin. For a moment he’s sure, for a moment he’s strong; for a moment it’s like he’s back in Boscan, where every word was a sally, where every smile was an invitation. It’s as if Shizuo’s words have stripped away the pain of the last long, agonized months, have brought Izaya back into who he was, into who they were; and then Izaya parts his lips, and lets his breath go, and lifts his hand to stretch his fingers over the gap between them. His touch ghosts over Shizuo’s head, his fingers trembling with the tension dragging in the air between them; and then he lets his hand settle, and lets his fingers press against Shizuo’s hair, and he can hear understanding in the gasp of an inhale Shizuo takes even before Izaya frames words to speech at his lips.

“Benevolence is in my nature,” he says, adopting a light, taunting tone; and then his hand trembles, and his fingers tighten, and for a moment he’s leaning in over Shizuo before him, his heart pounding in his chest and his fingers curling into the soft gold of Shizuo’s hair. “I forgive you.” He can hear the breath Shizuo takes, can feel the shift as his shoulders tense; and Izaya straightens, and draws his hand free, and takes a step back as quickly as Shizuo lifts his head to look at him. Shizuo’s eyes meet Izaya’s, just for a heartbeat of time; and Izaya ducks his head, and turns away to look back down the hallway again. “Now, if you don’t require anything further from me, I’m afraid I’m keeping my nurse waiting.” He turns away to continue down the corridor, lifting his hand to offer a casual wave as he resumes moving down the hallway with a far shakier tread than he had before.

“Wait,” Shizuo blurts. There’s the scuff of shoes again, a squeak of boots catching on tile as the other struggles to his feet to follow Izaya. “Izaya.” A hand catches at Izaya’s wrist, fingers skimming against the inside line of his sleeve for a moment before Shizuo draws his touch back as if burned. “Let me walk with you.”

“You’re free to walk where you will, of course,” Izaya says. “As our honored guest you’re welcome to invade whatever spaces you’d like.” Shizuo snorts from alongside him, a gust as if of a laugh at his lips; Izaya glances at him sideways to catch Shizuo’s eyes on him.

“Thanks,” Shizuo tells him. “That’s very generous of you.”

Izaya lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “What can I say,” he says. “I was born to nobility.” That makes Shizuo laugh again, as much as it pulls at the corner of Izaya’s mouth in answering amusement, and then they fall into silence again with just the sound of their shoes against the tile underfoot. It’s quiet for a moment, the hallway still enough that Izaya can pick out the different tread of Shizuo’s easy strides and his own almost-dragging steps; and then Shizuo clears his throat, and lifts his arm to bump against Izaya’s.

When Izaya looks sideways Shizuo is holding his arm out, his forearm braced to make a clear offer of his upturned palm. His arm doesn’t waver as they move forward, the offered support remains as steady as a rock; and Izaya looks away again, turning his head forward to continue gazing down the hallway. When he lifts his arm it’s without looking, without the assistance of sight to fit his arm in and through the loop of Shizuo’s so he can brace his fingers around the solid support of the other’s wrist; but Shizuo doesn’t so much as miss a step, even when Izaya tightens his grip to deliberately bruising force. He just pushes back against the weight of Izaya leaning into him, catching and steadying the other’s balance as they move forward, until by the time they’re rounding the corner to the main hallway Izaya’s steps are almost as graceful as Shizuo’s own.


	11. Equanimity

Izaya comes down to breakfast early the next morning. It’s easier to get out of bed than it has been in long weeks; he attributes that to the improvements he’s making with regards to his strength, at least in the space of his own thoughts. It may not be particularly pleasant to admit that Namie has been right about his physical recovery all this time; but continuing to deny that fact will leave him looking for other reasons for his good mood, and Izaya would rather not think overlong about the haze of pleasant dreams that graced him through the night lest he admit to recognizing the figure with strong hands and a warm smile who appeared in the vast majority of them. Better in this case to take the admission of Namie’s accuracy on the subject, and to reap the benefits of whatever the underlying cause is, and make his way down to breakfast the more quickly for the ease of his movement. He knows what shirt he’ll wear, he laid it out over the back of his chair the previous evening before settling himself into the relief of a bath and the comfort of his bed; it’s a simple matter to tug it on over his head and settle the cuffs around his wrists before he pulls at the laces at the collar. He leaves them open, this time, undone across the top so the ties span the dip at the base of his throat and the triangle of pale skin bared by the half-done collar, and when he considers himself in the mirror it’s only to lift a hand and rumple his hand through his hair to tousle the dark locks into the illusion of disarray brought about by a pillow rather than by design. His lashes are still heavy with the lingering haze of sleep, an effect compounded by the deliberate angle he lets his mouth fall into; he gazes at himself for a moment, fixing the details of his expression to his satisfaction in the glass before he turns and makes his way to the door so he can take on the deliberate trek down the hallways to the dining room.

He doesn’t call for assistance. It’s more of an effort than he expected it to be, without the time to pace some measure of warmth into the knots that limit the range of his mobility and ache dull hurt up against the back of his spine; but he’s halfway to the hall by the time the pain starts, and he’s not about to turn back then. He has to pause at an alcove, leaning hard against the wall while he catches his breath, and then again around the last turn so he can regain some color into his pain-white features; but by then he imagines he can hear the murmur of voices in the room just around the corner, and impatience gets the better of rational consideration. Izaya gets to his feet while his legs are still trembling, as soon as he can reasonably trust himself to stay upright for the span of minutes it’ll take to make it into the dining hall, and then he straightens his shoulders, and takes a breath, and moves forward to let himself in to breakfast with his heart racing on unacknowledged anticipation in his chest.

There are only a handful of people in the room. Izaya’s one of the earlier risers in the castle, a fact only further highlighted when he is in more haste than dread to make it to breakfast; if it were an ordinary day, his options for company would be limited to Namie, sitting at the corner of the table apparently entirely absorbed in the sheaf of documents in front of her, or perhaps Shiki, tipping in over his meal before him with movements as precise as if they are a dance more than a physical necessity. Even the twins haven’t made their appearance yet, any more than Mikage has arrived for pre-training sustenance; but Izaya isn’t looking for them and isn’t expecting to rely on Shiki’s politeness or Namie’s frigid consideration for his morning meal. He’s looking across the space of the presently empty room, his attention flickering past familiar faces and Numoran livery to land on the exception of pale blue at the far end of the table, where their most honored Boscan visitor is lifting his head to look towards the door. Shizuo’s gaze meets Izaya’s, their eyes locking even from across the whole distance of the room, and then Izaya ducks his head, and turns aside to make his way towards a cup of tea.

He doesn’t make any gesture to wave Shizuo in, doesn’t give so much as the flicker of a half-seen smile to urge the other into an approach. There’s just that first moment of awareness, the two of them seeing each other across the space of the room before Izaya is turning away to occupy himself elsewhere. But even with his back turned he can feel Shizuo’s approach as if it’s radiating heat into the air, as if his skin is prickling in answer to the other’s presence, until Izaya can take a breath and speak without even turning around to look at the other approaching over his shoulder.

“Good morning,” he says, keeping his gaze fixed on the teacup in front of him as he reaches for a teapot to pour himself a cup of dark liquid. “This is rather early for you to be up, isn’t it?”

Shizuo’s huff of an exhale feels like a touch against the back of Izaya’s neck. Izaya doesn’t lift his head to glance at the other, but he can feel the heat of it spill down the whole of his spine and back up, until he’s glad for the fall of his hair to cover his expression. “Morning,” Shizuo says. His voice sounds rough in the back of his throat; Izaya wonders if it’s the early hour that is drawing such texture into his tone. “I couldn’t sleep.” There’s movement in Izaya’s periphery, the lift of a hand coming up to push through yellow hair; it takes conscious effort for Izaya to keep his gaze on his teacup instead of glancing up to watch Shizuo’s fingers trail through the waves of his hair. “I thought I might as well come down to breakfast as sit in my room.”

“Of course,” Izaya says. “Meals are important. That monstrous strength isn’t going to sustain itself, is it?” And he turns without offering any more warning than that, pivoting against his heel so he can look up and into Shizuo’s eyes. Shizuo’s far closer than he reasonably ought to be; when Izaya turns his elbow brushes the other’s shirt and the teacup he has braced in his hand very nearly spills right across the span of Shizuo’s chest. It’s only Shizuo leaning back that saves them from catastrophe, and even then he’s tipping right back in again, his hand lifting to touch at Izaya’s elbow as if he thinks the other is in need of steadying, as if he is echoing an impulse carried through from the day before to brace Izaya’s unsteady feet. Izaya doesn’t need the support at the moment, not with his last pause outside the dining hall to grant some measure of stability back to his legs; but he doesn’t jerk his arm away from Shizuo’s touch, and Shizuo’s hand lingers just against his forearm even after it’s abundantly clear that the other needs no support at this moment. They just stand there staring at each other for a moment: Izaya can see the flicker of Shizuo’s attention wandering over his face, skimming the dark of his hair and dropping down to the neckline of his shirt. There’s a dip in Shizuo’s lashes, a motion in his throat as he swallows, as he opens his mouth to speak; and Izaya extends his hand to press the edge of his saucer in against the front of Shizuo’s shirt.

“Here,” he says. “Make yourself useful and take this to the table for me.”

Shizuo blinks and tips his head down, looking at startled as if he had forgotten such things as teacups existed in the world. He lifts his free hand slowly to accept the edge of the saucer and Izaya lets it go as quickly as Shizuo’s hold tightens on it.

“I’ll be over in a minute,” Izaya says with as much haughty unconcern as he can fit on the words. He shifts his arm in Shizuo’s hold to draw up and free of the other’s touch; when he reaches out it’s to press his fingertips against Shizuo’s shoulder and push to urge the other to motion. “Go find a place for us to sit.”

It’s not as if there’s any real challenge to this request. The table is all but empty, there are dozens of seats available for either of them to choose from; but the corner of Shizuo’s mouth tightens on the flicker of a smile, and when he takes a step back it’s in answer to that utterly forceless push against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, speaking slow like he’s thinking through Izaya’s words; and then he ducks his head fractionally, dipping into a tiny gesture of a bow without tipping his hold on Izaya’s tea. “As you command, Your Highness.” Izaya bites his lip to keep from smiling, but he suspects this is less than effective, judging from the way Shizuo’s own mouth curves on a smile wide enough to warm the dark color of his eyes. He huffs a breath that carries a little bit of embarrassment and a lot of pleasure on it, and then he’s ducking his head and turning away to obey Izaya’s flippant order with as much seriousness as if it were a battlefield command. Izaya’s smile breaks free of his control to spread across the whole of his face as he watches Shizuo move away towards the table; and then, from just over his shoulder: “Congratulations,” in such a completely deadpan tone Izaya knows who it is even as he’s jumping with the shock of his unexpected audience. He hisses as he turns, moving too fast so he has to clutch at the edge of the table to keep from falling outright; Namie just flickers a dismissive glance at his hand at the table before she looks back to the tea she’s serving herself. “Your conquest seems to be going well.”

Izaya presses his lips together tight on the snappish response he wants to give; it’s still not enough to hold back the flush that floods his cheeks, but at least it buys him a moment to collect himself into the illusion of confusion before he voices his reply. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Namie cuts him a sideways glance so sharp it could draw blood. “I hope you don’t honestly think you’re fooling anyone.”

Izaya lifts his chin higher. It doesn’t shed the self-consciousness burning under his skin, but at least it makes him feel a little taller, even if he’s still relying on his hand at the table to support himself. “I’m hardly trying to put on a show, Namie. Are you really so suspicious that I can’t even eat breakfast without you thinking I’m scheming something?”

“I don’t think anything about it,” Namie says without bothering to look up from her cup, this time. “I’m just observing the facts.”

Izaya scoffs. “Which are?”

Namie tips her head back towards the table over her shoulder. “You’ve tamed the beast.”

Izaya doesn’t mean to look. He intends to hold his fixed almost-glare on Namie before him, intends to cast himself into so much injured pride that his flush passes for anger instead of embarrassment by the time Namie leaves. But the shift of her motion draws his gaze to track it, the action eased by the unacknowledged drift of his own attention, and when he turns his head it’s to see Shizuo setting the teacup Izaya burdened him with at the far end of the table before reaching to draw the chair before it back from the surface. Izaya’s attention clings to the shift of Shizuo’s shoulders, and the curl of his tied-back hair catching at the back of his collar; and then Namie heaves a sigh and Izaya is looking back to her before Shizuo can look up and catch him staring.

“I’m going back to my office,” she declares as she claims her cup. “It’ll be better than watching you two flirting all morning.” She lifts her head to fix Izaya with cool consideration. “He’ll have to wait outside while you’re doing your exercises later, I don’t want you getting distracted and wasting even more of my time than usual.”

Izaya presses his lips together as tight as he can. It doesn’t help the color across his cheeks. “I’m sure His Highness will have better things to do than escort an invalid around the castle.”

Namie raises a dark eyebrow. “I’m not,” she says; and then she’s turning to make good on her promise of leaving. Izaya is left with his shaking arm bracing him against the edge of the table, and his whole face glowing hot with self-consciousness, and the awareness of Shizuo’s eyes on him clear even from across the whole span of the room. He ducks his head down over his hand, fixing his gaze on his feet for a moment while he breathes slow to let the flush at his cheeks fade to composure; it’s only once he’s sure of both his expression and the steadiness of his feet that he lifts his head and shakes his hair back to turn and make his way towards the table with a stride that is at least steady, even if it’s not particularly fast.

If he indulges in a brief, helpless smile while his expression is cast into shadow, at least neither Namie nor Shizuo is there to call him out on the admission that comes with the obvious pleasure.


	12. Sincere

Izaya’s not enjoying his evening.

His days have been better and better with every passing afternoon, with every new-made morning. His legs are healing, his stamina improving with every day of those boring exercises and every wandering walk through the palace halls and the garden paths, on those days he has an escort to accompany him on more adventurous routes. Those have become something he looks forward to, by now, and even if he doesn’t admit that fact aloud to anyone he thinks the truth of it is likely as clear to his now-regular company as Namie’s disinterested commentary indicates it to be to everyone else. Izaya could make use of those hours over the span of dinner, left to his own devices; he hardly has difficulty in filling his days now, anyway, and even with the outdoors effectively blocked off by the setting of the sun he’s sure he could come up with better ways to spend his time than this.

Unfortunately, the kingdom has other plans. Dinners are formal events, occasions to be handled as opportunities for political intrigue above and beyond what is achieved during the softer daylit hours; and however much Izaya may be achieving in his own way the relevance of his actions is hardly something Numora cares to count as a success. He is expected to attend these scheduled evening functions as a representative of the royal family, bearing a smile as constructed as the elegance of the embroidery winding across the dark of his formal vest; and he is expected to sit in silence where he is placed, to be seen as part of the reigning monarchy but removed from causing any of the problems that so plagued the delegation to Boscan all those months prior. Izaya takes the time to dress, to array himself in fine clothes and smooth his hair to the glossy black of spilled ink framing his pale skin and shadowed eyes; and then he is placed in a corner and left clear of the rest of the conversations, as if he has been transformed into a porcelain doll too delicate and exotic to be taken off a shelf and properly played with.

That’s where he’s been set tonight, as well, relegated to a corner of the hall with statements of concern for his health that are framed as affectionate worry and carry the weight of a declaration of exile from the main portion of the conversation, where the Boscan delegation is being plied with flattery and small talk that Izaya can’t be trusted to wield, apparently, as if the damage done to his legs stole his clarity of thought from him as well. That’s where Shizuo is, for all the frown at his lips and frustration creasing his forehead; he’s been carried from one conversation to another for the last hour, his attention so constantly demanded he barely had the chance to catch Izaya’s eye when the other was first ushered through the doors. Any interaction has been thoroughly prevented, by chance or intent Izaya doesn’t know which, and in the end the plan behind it hardly matters; what matters is that he’s all but trapped, restrained by expectation to his chair in the corner of the room while the murmur of voices dips and swells around the notes of the music being played for everyone to hear and not listen to.

“Your Highness.” It’s a familiar voice, sleek on diplomacy even with the naturally rough edge the owner carries in the back of his throat; when Izaya looks up Shiki is just drawing up to stand alongside him with a glass of wine braced in one hand. He ducks forward into a bow, the motion unhesitating and carrying an efficient elegance to which Izaya has long since grown accustomed; Shiki brings his glass to his mouth as he straightens, making the gesture part of the movement of his bow as he turns his head to consider the gathering in the rest of the room. “You are looking well this evening.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Izaya says, in the warmest tone of complete insincerity he can find. “As it seems that is to be the extent of the role I am to play this evening, it’s a relief to hear I’m succeeding at that if nothing else.”

“You are indeed,” Shiki says without sparing a glance away from the rest of the room. “I am always happy to provide what reassurance I can to the royal family.”

Izaya huffs a breath that falls equidistant between amusement and frustration. “I’m sure,” he says; and then, in a more direct tone, “What did you really come over here to say, Shiki?”

“I simply wished to offer my appreciation for your presence on everyone’s behalf,” Shiki says. “It can’t be easy for you to attend these sorts of events after so long spent away recovering after the war.”

Izaya can feel his jaw set on the beginnings of tension to answer the sarcasm he can sense under Shiki’s words, even if no trace of it makes it into the other’s tone. He presses his lips together and swallows deliberately to clear his voice to polite sweetness before he answers. “Certainly not,” he says. “I’m just happy to be able to help our countries move towards greater understanding of each other, however I may.”

“Of course,” Shiki says, and brings his glass to his lips for another sip. “Then again, if you were to plead exhaustion to excuse yourself early, I can’t imagine anyone would fault you for it. Everyone is very understanding of your situation.”

Izaya can feel his face heat as he glares up at Shiki. He isn’t sure which he’s more irritated by: the overt statement of how many concessions he is being granted by everyone else in the room, or the implication that he would be of better help were he not even present. There’s a prickle of stubbornness at the back of his thoughts as his wounded pride stiffens his shoulders and draws him into picture-perfect posture. “I’ll certainly bear that in mind, should it become necessary.”

“Do,” Shiki says; and then he’s turning his head to fix Izaya with the full force of judgment behind his dark eyes. “You should consider taking a few minutes to cool your head in the hallway in any case. I don’t expect the heat is an easy thing to bear for one in your condition.”

Izaya stares back at Shiki for a long moment. “Is it really that bad?”

Shiki reaches out to press a hand against Izaya’s shoulder and weight hard against the other’s posture as he leans in closer. It probably passes for comfort to anyone at any distance, but there’s no more gentleness to his hold than Shiki ever shows to anyone, just absolute steel certainty as he ducks in to speak softly for Izaya’s ears alone. “You look as if you’re ready to declare war on your own country if you’re forced to suffer through this any longer.” Izaya’s face heats with self-consciousness, he opens his mouth to protest; but Shiki is still speaking without giving him a chance to offer a reply. “Either have Namie invent you an excuse to absent yourself or step out until you can compose yourself to a better appearance of cheer. You are doing none of us any favors as you are.” And he’s straightening at once, letting Izaya’s shoulder go as he tips his head into another bow before striding away to rejoin one of the other clusters of visitors. Izaya is left to stare after him, jaw tense on irritation at being so entirely called out for something he can’t even try to deny; and then he ducks his head, and braces his hands against the arms of his chair to push himself to his feet so he can make his way to the door in obedience to Shiki’s polite demand.

It’s cooler in the hallway. Izaya hadn’t realized how stifling the other room was; the fresh air hits him as soon as he opens the door, rushing over him like a cool shower washing away the flush of anger and self-consciousness at once. He steps out into the hallway, reaching behind him to ease the door shut near-silently in his wake; and then he moves out of the way of the doors so he can stride out into the hallway and turn to pace down the length of it in front of the banquet hall with only the soft murmur of the muffled music inside for company.

He feels better already. It’s easier to feel steady in himself when he’s on his feet, easier with the proof of his aching body answering the commands of his mind; and the cool air is helping too, without the stifling heat of dozens of bodies and the glow of wine to weight every breath he takes. Izaya can hear the scuff of his shoes against the tile out here, can hear the soft rhythm of his breathing in his chest; he can hear the strained pace of it easing as he moves along the hallway, working out the tension in his shoulders as quickly as he paces out the knots of stress from his legs. He’s just moving, walking along the length of the hallway without any real thought of returning or leaving either one, without thinking of anything beyond the relief of the present calm and the simple satisfaction of feeling his body easing its grip on his self-conscious strain; and then there’s a spill of sound, a burst of laughter and voices as the music suddenly swells louder, and Izaya’s twisting to look back towards the hall just as the door comes open and Shizuo steps out of the other room.

Their eyes meet right away. They’re several feet apart, where Izaya has paced himself down the hallway and where Shizuo is just emerging; for a moment they just stare at each other, with no sound but the murmur of conversation from the open door as background. Izaya gazes at Shizuo at the other end of the hallway, silhouetted in the doorway to the party and with his eyes fixed full on Izaya; and then he straightens his shoulders, and takes a step forward, and Shizuo moves to come the rest of the way out of the doorway so he can let it swing shut behind him. He looks back to watch it shut, to ease it back into place as if to hide his exit; and then he’s looking back, turning as Izaya draws level with him in front of the doors back to the hall. Izaya braces his feet to steadiness, and lets his shoulders ease, and when he lifts his head to look up at Shizuo it’s with a smirk tugging at his lips he doesn’t have to reach for at all.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are Numoran parties not to your liking?”

Shizuo grimaces. “Ah,” he says. “No, it’s fine.”

“Fine,” Izaya repeats. “Really? My father is pulling out all the stops for you, Boscan, I’d think you’d be at least a  _ little _ impressed. You’re certainly supposed to be.”

Shizuo huffs. “It’s great,” he clarifies. “Why aren’t you inside?”

Izaya can feel his lashes dip, can feel his smile go strained at his lips. “Come on,” he says, falling back towards the comfort of sarcasm as he rocks back on his heels. “Surely you don’t mean the presence of one crippled prince is  _ that _ necessary? No one will even notice I’m gone.”

“I noticed,” Shizuo says. Izaya raises his eyebrows, gazing up at Shizuo without offering any kind of a response; Shizuo presses his lips together, his cheeks darkening with self-consciousness as if he’s just realized what he’s said. They stare at each other for a moment, separated by a span of inches and an impossible chasm of silence; and then Shizuo takes a breath and turns his head to nod towards the murmur of sound from the other side of the doors. “I like the music, anyway.”

“That’s good to hear,” Izaya says. “I’ll have to pass the message along. We’ll see if perhaps a Numoran ball won’t pique your interest, if the politicking doesn’t suit your tastes.” Shizuo makes a face and Izaya grins, rocking back on his heels to smirk up at the other. “What, is dancing not to your tastes? Or is it just not something they teach over in your backwards country?”

Shizuo snorts. “I know how to  _ dance _ .”

Izaya raises an eyebrow. “Sure,” he drawls, with as much sarcasm as he can muster for the word. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I  _ do _ ,” Shizuo protests, his mouth tensing on a frown. “I bet I’m a better dancer than you are.”

Izaya coughs a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, that’s a great joke. Never let it be said Boscans don’t have a sense of humor.”

“Fine,” Shizuo says, and takes a half-step forward over the minimal distance left between them as he lifts a hand towards Izaya’s elbow. “Come here and we’ll test it.”

Izaya’s laughter evaporates at once, cutting off in his throat as immediately as the smile at his lips flickers and falls. He takes a step back, drawing out of range of Shizuo’s hold even as the other reaches for him.

“Come on,” Shizuo says, extending his hand towards Izaya. “We have music, don’t we?” His lips curve on a teasing smile, his eyes brighten with amusement. “You at least owe me the honor of a duel to answer the question.”

Izaya presses his lips together and lifts his chin. “I can’t,” he says shortly. When he lifts his hand it’s to gesture sharply towards his braced-out legs, where he’s rocking back hard to stay out of range of Shizuo’s extended hand. “Our  _ last _ duel cut off that possibility quite thoroughly.”

It’s some satisfaction to see the smile melt off Shizuo’s face, to see his eyes go wide on the horrified realization of what he has been pushing for. His hand drops, his gaze flickers down to Izaya’s stance; for a moment Izaya lets him stare in silence, lets the weight of the other’s conversational misstep sink in to its full weight. It’ll only be for a moment -- Izaya hardly wants to chase Shizuo back into the stifling confines of the banquet hall -- but he’s only just taking a breath to offer the elegant graciousness of a subject change when Shizuo seizes an inhale and steps forward again, entirely crossing the distance to Izaya this time so when he lifts his hand his fingers actually brush against the other’s wrist.

“You can,” he says. “If you try, just--”

“I  _ can’t _ ,” Izaya snaps back, and jerks his wrist away from Shizuo’s outstretched fingers. “Not like I used to. There’s no elegance to it now, there’s no way I can keep up when I can barely stand on my own.”

“I’ll help you,” Shizuo blurts. “I can hold you up, I’ve done it before.”

Izaya scoffs. “You can’t dance and keep me on my feet at the same time.”

“Let me try,” Shizuo says. Izaya looks up through his lashes; Shizuo is looking right at him, his mouth curving soft on something hurting and desperate at one and the same time. His eyes look dark in the lesser candlelight here in the hallway; it reminds Izaya of the last time he saw Shizuo is such low lighting, in the darkest hours of a Boscan night with the arching height of an isolated hallway around them then, too. His breath catches, his retreat stalls; and Shizuo’s forehead creases, Shizuo’s mouth twists on want. “Please, Izaya.”

Izaya stares at Shizuo for a moment. There’s no hesitation in the other’s gaze, no uncertain suspicion behind his eyes; just open want, a desire for a boon to be granted so simple and direct it seems almost childlike. Shizuo’s trailing him down the hallway, begging him for a simple favor, for a single, foolish allowance; and from the other side of the shut door, there’s the muffled resonance of music, notes rising and catching into the air as if from a distant music box, as if they’re lifting from Izaya’s own half-buried memories, of the skim of footsteps landing easy on a ballroom floor, and the taste of laughter at his lips, and wine singing heat in his veins as he danced from one outstretched hand to the next with the pleasure of his own elegance closer to him than any of the graceful partners he claimed. That self is gone, now, beaten into the mud of a distant battlefield by a pair of dark eyes and too-strong arms; but Shizuo’s eyes are warm, now, wide and pleading his case better than his struggling words, and his hand is held out into an offer, and the music is ringing in Izaya’s ears. Izaya takes a breath, tastes the heat of the moment on his tongue, the frisson of possibility at his lips; and then he ducks his head, and lifts his hand, and reaches out to lay it atop Shizuo’s.

Shizuo huffs a exhale, the sound almost carrying the weight of relief on it before he closes his fingers in around Izaya’s, tightening his grip as if to hold the other steady as he takes a step in. He lifts his hand, reaching out for Izaya’s waist with the unthinking grace of habit; and then he stops, catching himself just shy of contact as he visibly stalls on awkward uncertainty. “Oh.” His hand shifts on Izaya’s, pulling like Shizuo’s thinking of inverting their hold on each other. “Would you rather…?”

Izaya heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. “I can barely stand on my own, I’m hardly going to be able to lead.” He lifts his hand to reach for Shizuo’s shoulder and brace hard against the soft of the other’s vest, steadying his grip while thinking very hard about the logistics of the situation and not the reality of the experience. “You said you’d hold me up, are you planning to do that by just the one hand?”

“No,” Shizuo says, his voice grating onto the beginnings of frustration in the back of his throat, and he’s moving at once to reach out and press hard at Izaya’s waist. His hand settles just over the other’s hip, his fingers brace steady support at the side of Izaya’s vest; Izaya can feel his balance level out just from that unflinching point of contact against him. There’s another pause, another breath of hesitation; and then Shizuo lifts Izaya’s hand in his, and takes a step to steer them into the steps of a dance in the hallway. He’s coming forward, the urging of his hand pressing Izaya into backwards movement; Izaya takes the step, shifting his weight with speed enough that he thinks he’d fall were it not for that hold he has at Shizuo’s shoulder. His balance is unsteady, his footing shaky; but Shizuo is still moving forward, urging him into a rhythm matched to the sound of the music more than to Izaya’s struggling footwork. Izaya stumbles through another step, feeling his shoulders tensing with the unpleasant self-consciousness of his own awkward movement, and then Shizuo takes another step forward and Izaya hisses protest and shoves against the other’s shoulder to stall his approach.

“ _ Stop _ ,” he snaps. Shizuo stumbles to a halt, his feet far closer to Izaya’s than they were a moment ago and with Izaya’s elbow caught in the space between them. “You’re just dragging me around, this isn’t going to work. Can’t you go any slower?”

Shizuo huffs. “I can’t keep to the rhythm if we go slower,” he protests. “What’s the problem?”

“You’re pushing me backwards,” Izaya grumbles. “I can’t see where I’m going and you’re moving too fast. Possibly you hadn’t noticed but I’m not nearly as quick on my feet as I once was. I thought you were going to hold me up, not leave me to hang off you like an overcoat.”

“I can’t just carry you around,” Shizuo snaps back. “That’s not even dancing anymore.”

“At least give me some more support,” Izaya tells him. “I’m doing all the work here with you holding me out as far away as you can get me.”

“I’m not--” Shizuo starts; and then he falls quiet, his words dying to silence as he blinks at Izaya before him. Izaya stares right back, his cheeks flushed on embarrassment and irritation in equal measures; and with something else, maybe, beneath both those, that he doesn’t want to look at too closely. Shizuo’s lashes dip, his lips part as if to speak; and then he licks them instead, and ducks his head like he’s bracing himself for action.

“Here,” he says, his voice softer and lower than it was; and he’s pulling against Izaya’s waist, his hand sliding up and around to brace at the small of the other’s back before he pulls in. Izaya stumbles forward, drawn forward and off his feet entirely by the irresistible urging of Shizuo’s hold on him; and then he’s pressing right up against Shizuo’s chest, the sleek smooth of his vest catching close against the other’s. They stand there for a moment, pinned close together and with awkward strain in every part of both their bodies; and then Izaya takes a breath, and eases his hand at Shizuo’s shoulder, and Shizuo shifts to match him, adjusting his grip at Izaya’s hand to soften the bracing hold into something gentler as quickly as Izaya winds his arm up and around Shizuo’s neck to gain the support of the other’s shoulders for his uncertain feet. The motion draws him in closer, brings him in so near he’s looking out over Shizuo’s shoulder instead of into the other’s face; Izaya thinks if he lifted his head his nose would bump against Shizuo’s, with how close they are. His heart is pounding in his chest, he can feel the frantic edge to its rhythm trembling through his whole body; but Shizuo is breathing harder too, Izaya can feel the gust of the other’s exhales winding like fingers into the smooth of his hair. They stand there for a moment, pressing close against each other and with their hearts beating hard on matched adrenaline; and then Shizuo’s hand tightens against Izaya’s, and Shizuo takes a half-step back, and when he moves this time Izaya is drawn with him without thinking, without having to work through the complexities of moving his shaking legs. He’s urged by Shizuo’s hand at his back, steadied by his hold on the other’s shoulders and guided by those fingers wrapping around his own, and when they shift together there is something almost like grace in the movement shared out between them.

There’s quiet for a moment. Izaya fixes his gaze on the seam of Shizuo’s vest, on the tracery of silver embroidery just under the weight of his sleeve around the other’s shoulders; it’s a safer place for his attention than the brace of the hand against the small of his back, or the pattern of Shizuo’s breathing against his ear, or the thought of how easy it would be to lift his fingers by an inch and catch his touch into the curl of Shizuo’s ponytail just over his wrist. The soft murmur of the music fills the hallway, muted almost out of hearing by the weight of the door between them and the rest of the gathering; as soft as it is it’s almost like they’re forming the rhythm of their movement between them, as if it’s more instinct than intent guiding the shift of Izaya’s body to move in time with Shizuo’s against him. Izaya’s fingers are trembling, his heart is racing; and then Shizuo takes a ragged breath against his hair, and speaks in such a soft tone it’s almost a whisper at Izaya’s ear.

“I didn’t know.” His voice is low, so deep down in his throat Izaya can feel the sound of the words more than hear them, like they’re texture running down his spine more than coherency he has to parse to clarity. “When I came here with the delegation. I didn’t know if I would get to see you again.”

Izaya doesn’t say anything. He’s staring at Shizuo’s shoulder, leaning in close against the support of the other’s arms around him, of his own hold around Shizuo’s neck; it’s all he can do to keep his feet shifting in the tiny, half-formed steps of the dance Shizuo is leading them through, all he can do to keep his head upright and his hand still instead of leaning in to meet the rumble of those words, instead of lifting his fingers to curl into the sweet-smelling warmth of that sun-gold hair. Speech is beyond him, whether to answer or to ask for more; so he does the only thing he can, and he stays silent, and he listens to Shizuo’s voice curling against the fall of his hair over his ear.

“I hoped I would,” Shizuo says. His arm around Izaya tightens, his hold pulls the other in closer against him. “That’s why I came. I wanted--I  _ needed _ to see you, to see if you were okay. To apologize, if I could.”

The hand in Izaya’s shifts, Shizuo’s fingers sliding up to curl closer around the other’s, to form intimacy out of the guidance of the hold. Izaya can feel Shizuo’s touch drawing up over his hand, can feel the gentle drag of the contact like Shizuo is learning the feel of his skin, like he’s savoring the texture of Izaya’s hand in his. Izaya has to shut his eyes for a moment, just to bring himself into focus on the drag of his breathing in his chest, to hold it back to silence while his heart pounds doubletime against his ribs.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Shizuo admits against Izaya’s hair. “After the war. After that last fight we had, I didn’t…” He shakes his head. The movement presses him close against the side of Izaya’s head; he lingers there, breathing against the other’s hair like he’s trying to draw him into his lungs.

“I didn’t know if you were okay,” he says, his voice lower even than it was before, dragging raw over some unnamed pain in his throat. “I thought you might be dead. I thought I had killed you, maybe, and I didn’t know, I couldn’t get anyone to tell me and I  _ had _ to know.”

Izaya can’t catch his breath. He’s clinging to Shizuo’s shoulders, now, his arm trembling with the all-in effort of holding himself up, he’s sure the tension thrumming through the whole of his body must be clear to Shizuo pressing against him; but maybe Shizuo’s trembling too, maybe that earthquake-strong force rippling through him is echoing in Shizuo’s hold bracing them together from hip to shoulder, maybe Shizuo is clinging to his fingers as tightly as Izaya is clutching at the other’s. Shizuo turns, his forehead pressing against the side of Izaya’s head, his nose digging into the fall of the other’s hair; when he takes a breath Izaya feels the warmth of it slide over the line of his collar like a touch wandering against the line of his throat.

“I’m so glad,” Shizuo says, the words breaking like waves at Izaya’s hair. “I’m so sorry for what I did and I’m so glad you’re alive, Izaya, I--” His voice gives way, his head ducks in; and Izaya’s head tips to the side as if on instinct, as if to offer the curve of his neck to Shizuo’s lips.

Shizuo takes a breath, struggling over the catch of it as he does. Izaya thinks he can feel the echo of his own racing heartbeat in Shizuo’s chest pressing hard against his own, as if they’re sharing the same existence, as if the lines between them are blurring with every breath. The sound of the music has faded out of his attention, their movement has stalled still; he thinks he’s forgotten everything but himself, and Shizuo, and the feel of Shizuo breathing so close against his skin.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says. His voice is so low and hot it’s almost a groan, his tone dropping down to open want where he’s pressing the words in under Izaya’s ear. Izaya thinks for a moment Shizuo is going to duck in closer, is going to press his lips to a kiss against the line of his throat and lay claim to the frantic race of Izaya’s pulse in his neck as easily as he laid claim to Izaya’s country in that last violent interlude between them; Izaya thinks he’d let him, thinks he’d turn his head and let himself give way to the support of Shizuo’s arms and the irresistible force of Shizuo’s mouth against him. But Shizuo just takes a breath, the sound ragged on heat; and then he’s drawing up and lifting his head to turn in instead. Izaya opens his eyes again to cast his gaze sideways through the shadow of his lashes; he can see Shizuo in too-close perspective, with the details of his expression broken out to separate fragments of vision. The dark of his lashes, the heavy weight of them cast down over the clear color of his eyes as his attention clings to Izaya’s face, as his focus narrows down to the details of the other in his arms; the flush against his cheeks, warm heat glowing under his skin with the proof more of desire than of self-consciousness. And the angle of his lips parted on soft, unthinking want, the curve of them an open invitation Izaya doesn’t think Shizuo knows he’s giving. Izaya stares at them for a long moment, his heart racing and his thoughts spinning; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and Izaya watches him duck in with the force of intention behind the motion. Izaya’s head is tipped half-in, his expression cast to shadow but his mouth still within reach, his lips soft with the possibility Shizuo is moving towards; and it’s just as Shizuo’s nose brushes his cheek that Izaya takes a breath and speaks.

“Don’t.” It’s just one word, barely a breath; Izaya’s heart is beating so hard he can barely hear it himself, even with the tension of speech against his chest. But Shizuo freezes, his whole motion stalled as instantly as if Izaya had shoved him away; and into the stillness Izaya presses his lips together, and swallows hard, and forces himself to speech. “Not until I give you permission.”

There’s a breath of hesitation. Shizuo is still so near Izaya can taste the other against his tongue; if he pushes in Izaya isn’t sure he’ll be able to turn away, isn’t sure he’ll have the strength to break free from that so long-awaited contact. All he can do is wait, his arms trembling where he’s holding to Shizuo and his breathing coming fast on adrenaline; and then Shizuo presses his lips tight together, and ducks his head, and Izaya shuts his eyes as the other retreats, unsure if it’s more relief or disappointment in his veins. Shizuo could have forced the subject, could have pinned Izaya back against the wall next to them and overrun whatever defenses Izaya has left to himself; Izaya thinks he might have, if they were back in Boscan, where everything between them was conveyed at the point of a rapier or the edge of a sword. But they’re not in Boscan any more; they’re here, in a shadowy corridor in a palace that has no room for Izaya in it, with even Izaya’s mobility in the moment shored up by Shizuo’s hold on him. It’s not a duel anymore, not the way it once was; and in this moment, Izaya needs proof of his own control more even than the satisfaction of Shizuo’s mouth pressing against his. Shizuo pulls away, Izaya ducks his head, and when he lets his breath go into a sigh against Shizuo’s shirt he doesn’t know if the sound at his lips is frustration or gratitude.

Shizuo shifts his hold against Izaya’s waist, sliding his hand down against the other’s back like he’s thinking of letting go, or of pulling away; but Izaya presses his hand against Shizuo’s shoulder, curling his arm in tighter to brace himself in place, and after a moment the uncertainty in Shizuo’s body eases and he lets himself relax back into holding Izaya against him. They stand there for a moment, pressing still against each other; and then Shizuo shifts his foot back, and Izaya follows him in, and they start dancing again, resuming the fluidity of their motion after their brief distraction.

Shizuo clears his throat with husky force. “Sorry,” he says, the word clear against the murmur of sound filling the hall.

Izaya ducks his head over Shizuo’s shoulder. “Don’t be,” he says, speaking very softly. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

The taste of truth is strange on his tongue.


	13. Happenstance

Izaya doesn’t go down for breakfast the next morning.

He has reasons for this. He could even argue the points, in order if needed: he ate late the night before, he overslept this morning, the strain of the banquet has left his legs achy enough that he doesn’t want to go through the trouble of walking to the meal. He can always have something brought up, if he needs it, or he can make a light breakfast of his usual morning tea; there are a whole host of reasons why he isn’t going down to the morning meal, a list of items as long as him arm to serve him as defense if someone -- if  _anyone_  -- should ask about his absence. But he knows perfectly well why he lingers in bed, and why he sits in front of his mirror staring through the image instead of really seeing his reflection, and why it is he keeps stalling still in the middle of whatever he’s doing like he’s forgotten how to move himself forward through his day. He would ignore it if he could -- that’s what he’s done up till now, after all, and it’s worked well enough for him -- but he can’t escape the awareness of it any more than he could make himself pull away from Shizuo’s hold last night.

The memory haunts him, the details of that moment cling to his mind; it’s as if he can feel Shizuo’s arm pressing around his waist even now, as if he can still hear the rhythm of Shizuo’s heartbeat thrumming so near to his own. He can taste the words on his lips, the bitter tang of  _don’t_  like an echo of the hurt still radiating through his legs; and he wonders, standing in the middle of his room with a coat half-on and his movement stalled to distraction, if he should have kept his mouth shut after all. Maybe it would have been better to swallow back that instinctive rejection, to tamp down the revenge of refusal in exchange for the melting warmth of friction against him, lips pressing against his own, hands sliding into his hair and across his skin and -- and something in Izaya rebels, some fragment of long-forgotten pride reels him back to reality in a rush. It would have been surrender, would have been capitulation; and however sweet the loss, it would have been a loss all the same. Izaya can’t countenance it even in his imagination, even in the hazy fog of fantasy; and he drags his coat on roughly, and strides forward to the door with enough force to chase away the what-ifs with the aching immediacy of pain instead.

He takes the back hallways through the castle, giving up the efficiency of a straight-line path in exchange for avoiding as many people as he can, even servants. He only passes two on his way to the sanctuary of the library, both of them too occupied with their work to more than glance at him, and he’s walking with enough certainty that neither of them  even pause to offer the support of an arm to where he’s going. It’s a minor comfort, something that would have been enough to tug the satisfaction of a smile onto his face at another time; but Izaya has other things to occupy his thoughts now, and even this proof of his physical improvement doesn’t win more than a flicker of warmth. He just wants to find a secluded corner of the library, and heap a pile of texts at his elbow, and take the length of the morning to unravel the knots in his mind with the distraction of histories. Luckily this seems more possible with every step he takes and every turning he makes; there’s no Namie in his way, no trace of his sisters to dog his steps. He’s maintaining his isolation, dodging the audience he wants least of all right now; and then he takes the turning towards the library, and the hall is empty before him, the expanse of it promising him a clear path towards the haven he is hoping to reach. His steps pick up speed as he draws nearer, falling into something very nearly like a normal rhythm instead of his usual limping gait; and then he’s reaching for the handle of the door, ready to brace himself against the burden as he pulls it open, and the weight comes open almost into him to reveal exactly the person Izaya has wanted to avoid and hasn’t been able to chase even from his thoughts.

Izaya startles backwards, almost falling in his haste to retreat across the hallway. It’s not an elegant motion, any more than the sharp intake of breath he manages is anything like subtle, but he doesn’t have a chance to do anything else, not with his heart skidding out on near-panic the way it is. The only comfort is that Shizuo is jerking back too, stumbling backwards into the library with the same clumsy haste; he only barely recovers in time to throw a hand out and stop the door from closing between them and blocking off their interaction. They’re left staring at each other, Izaya halfway to the wall behind him and Shizuo bracing open the door one-handed; and then Shizuo presses his lips tight together, and his entire face goes as scarlet as if with an instantaneous sunburn. His reaction is immediate and all-encompassing; Izaya can feel his throat tighten on a laugh in spite of himself, even as his own face heats with embarrassment as much in answer to Shizuo’s as from his own self-consciousness.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, sounding about as breathless as he looks. He closes his mouth hard and clears his throat, as if to shed the effect of embarrassment from his chest by force. “Hi.”

Izaya ducks his head forward marginally, sketching the very outline of a bow without looking away from Shizuo in front of him. “Good morning,” he says without trying to ease the words from the tension of suspicion in him. Shizuo goes on staring at him; Izaya lifts his chin and reaches for something else to say. “Aren’t you meant to be at breakfast?”

Shizuo shakes his head sharply. “I finished an hour ago,” he says; and then, in a rush: “You weren’t there.”

Izaya raises his eyebrows. “Your powers of observation are  _astounding_ ,” he says. He can feel his flush fading as he regains his conversational footing; Shizuo’s is easing too, at least from most of his face, but the color seems to be condensing across his cheekbones more than anything else, turning the glow that was suffusing his expression into a heat so dark it resembles paint spread across his features. “I slept late, it wasn’t worth the trouble by the time I arose.”

Shizuo’s mouth shifts, his lashes dip. “I thought you might be avoiding me.”

Izaya’s jaw tightens, his knees lock; he lifts his chin and tries for a tone of biting sarcasm to distract from the color at his face. “Yes, and that is working out  _so_  well for me.” Shizuo flinches as if Izaya has scored a hit; Izaya lets his head tip forward to fix his gaze on the floor and takes a breath to ease some of the strain in his chest. “I hardly have any reason to avoid our most honored guest.” He lets that linger for a minute, long enough that the structure of the words starts to sound insincere just from the pause; and then he lifts his gaze to Shizuo’s face without raising his chin so he’s looking through the dark weight of his lashes at the other. “Of course, if Your Highness wishes to stalk me, all you have to do is say so.”

Shizuo gusts a breath something between a laugh and a cough of disbelief. “I’m  _not_ ,” he protests. “I didn’t know you were going to be here, honestly.”

“Of course not,” Izaya says, with enough edge on the words to make them a mockery. “Just like you didn’t mean to interrupt my teatime in the garden, or run into me outside the infirmary, or bump into me at breakfast. For two people not trying to see each other we seem to do an awful lot of exactly that.”

“I--” Shizuo’s flush darkens, his words break off. He ducks his head as he grimaces. “I really wasn’t here looking for you.”

“No,” Izaya says. “You were just pining for my presence all through your lonely breakfast.” He’s teasing, mostly, but Shizuo’s cheeks flare redder, and Izaya has to bite his lip as his own glow with answering color. There’s a moment of silence between them enough to grant Izaya’s words extra weight; and then Izaya heaves a dramatic sigh and takes a step forward to reach for the handle of the library door again.

“At least come out into the hallway,” he says, pulling to urge the door free of Shizuo’s hold. “You’re standing there like a statue, I can’t talk to you while you can’t decide if you want to come closer or run away.” Shizuo blinks, staring wide-eyed at Izaya as if the other has said something incomprehensible; Izaya keeps his gaze fixed on Shizuo’s shoulder rather than looking up and noticing how close they are standing, or how near he is to the heat of Shizuo’s mouth. He lifts his free hand to gesture to the space beside him. “Come on, I promise it’s perfectly safe. Unless you wish to stand guard in the doorway and hold the library hostage?” That gets a huff of a laugh, like it was supposed to, and when Izaya glances up at Shizuo again the other is looking down, his lips curving on a smile as he takes Izaya’s invitation and steps out into the hallway. Izaya’s gaze lingers for a moment, tracing out against the dip at the corner of Shizuo’s mouth, clinging to the crease at the very center of the other’s lower lip; and then he turns his head and clears his throat as he lets the door go so it can swing shut in Shizuo’s wake.

“There,” he says, and turns back to face Shizuo in the otherwise empty hall. “Now we’re both occupying the same space like normal people. Shall we press our luck and attempt reasonable conversation as well?” Shizuo huffs another laugh, his gaze flickering to Izaya’s face for a moment, and Izaya lets the nervous energy in his veins break to a grin across his face. “How  _was_  breakfast? Was there food? Perhaps even beverages?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Breakfast was fine,” he says. “You must know, you have it here every day.”

“Only when I deign to grace the attendees with my presence,” Izaya says airily. “And it’s not usually as expansive as you’ve seen. We’re really pulling out all the stops for your delegation, you know, with banquets and garden tours and balls all together.” Shizuo’s gaze skips to Izaya’s face, the amusement at his lips fading at this oblique reference; Izaya presses his lips together, and breathes in deep through his nose, and continues on. “You even got a dance from the invalid prince. I hope you feel the honor of that.”

Shizuo breaks into a weak smile. “I do,” he says; and then, as his smile fades into sincerity: “I do.” Izaya’s spine prickles with sensation, as if the weight of Shizuo’s gaze on him is crackling down the whole length of his back, but he doesn’t look away, even as his heart speeds in his chest in answer to the focus of those dark eyes fixed on him. Shizuo stares at him for a moment, his attention searching Izaya’s gaze like he’s looking for something; and then his focus drops, his eyes flickering down to linger unmistakably against the other’s lips. Izaya watches him for a moment, watching Shizuo’s gaze go softer and the set of his mouth ease on unconscious desire; and then Shizuo ducks his head, and clears his throat, and Izaya is left to take a deliberate breath and let it out silently past the tremor of adrenaline in him.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, his voice grating in the back of his throat. “Last night, I…” He ducks his head farther forward; a lock of hair falls forward to shade his features. “I’m--”

“Don’t apologize.” Izaya’s voice is sharp and loud enough to cut clearly through Shizuo’s far softer tone; Shizuo’s head comes up, his gaze locks on Izaya’s. Izaya takes a breath and goes on speaking straight into the dark of those eyes. “I don’t want to hear it if you don’t mean it.” There’s a pause, a moment of breathless tension between them; and then Izaya lifts his head, and drags the corner of his mouth up onto the most blasé smirk he can find. “Then again, if you  _do_  think you need to beg my forgiveness, I believe I’ve already told you how to ask for that.”

Shizuo’s lashes dip, his lips part; for a moment Izaya thinks he might laugh, or scoff, or maybe even step back to drop to a knee. But instead his gaze flickers down to Izaya’s mouth again, just for a moment, and then he’s shaking his head, the gesture clear even as he presses his lips together and swallows with audible force.

“No,” he says, and his voice is lower even than it was, husky like it’s rattling over gravel in his chest. “I’m not sorry.”

“Good,” Izaya says. His whole body is prickling with all-over heat, his heart is pounding in his chest; but he swings his voice light in spite of that, in spite of the fact that every breath Shizuo takes feels like it’s pulling the air around him to an open flame. “Me either.”

There’s another pause. Izaya doesn’t feel it as an absence of sound; it’s more like the universe itself taking a breath, like every part of his body drawing itself into bowstring readiness for the next sally. Shizuo leans in, just fractionally, barely a half-inch worth of movement; Izaya feels as if he’s expanding to fill every breath of air between them.

“So,” Shizuo says, and swallows again. “What do I have to do to get your permission?”

Izaya shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a breath to fill his lungs with the tension between them. He can taste it like smoke on his tongue, as if his exhale is clouding the air with heat the way it does on frosty mornings; and then he lifts his chin, and he rocks back on his heels, and he flashes his most brilliant smile up at Shizuo.

“I don’t know,” he says, with perfect honesty. He purses his lips into consideration and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “You could always just try asking, I suppose.” Shizuo blinks, looking dazed and incoherent, and Izaya tilts his head to the side to smirk at the other. “See you at our next coincidence, Your Highness.” And he steps to the side with careful dignity so he can move around Shizuo and resume his interrupted motion into the library.

He doesn’t turn around to look back, but he can feel Shizuo’s eyes on him as surely as he can feel the heat flushing warm over every inch of his skin.


	14. Self-Inflicted

It’s Izaya who goes looking for Shizuo, after that.

He’d deny the reality of that, if he were asked. He doesn’t even know how to frame the words of such an admission, much less find the willingness to give them voice at his lips; but he knows what it is he’s doing when he paces out the hallway in front of his bedroom with the intent to work the stiff knots of disuse out of his legs, and he knows where he’s going when he leaves the main castle to cut out across the grounds unsupported by any but his own uncertain tread. He knows where he wants to go, and he knows who he’s hoping to find there; and aside from not wanting an audience for the tacit admission in the direction of his steps, he’d rather make this journey alone, if he can.

Izaya can hear the proof of Shizuo’s presence well before he rounds the corner blocking the training grounds from sight. It’s a lengthy distance, or at least has become such by the lingering weakness in Izaya’s legs, but he can still hear the noise, and no one else could make such a racket with the practice dummy set up at the end of the field. Izaya can hear every  _clang_  of sword meeting armor, can hear the creak as the support beam for the dummy resists the force of the blows being rained down upon it, until by the time he finally comes up to the corner and reaches out to brace himself against it he knows what he’s going to see before he steps forward to come into view of the grounds themselves.

Shizuo hasn’t bothered with any kind of armor. Izaya expected that; if the threat of a practice rapier in Izaya’s hand wasn’t enough to merit concern, the unmoving edge of the weapon strapped to the dummy is hardly worth mentioning. Shizuo has taken the field in his shirtsleeves, with just the weight of a loose white shirt to cover the flex of his shoulders and the strength of his arms; it’s clinging to the line of his back, where a trail of sweat in spite of the winter-chill air speaks to how long he’s been exerting himself. His hair was tied back, Izaya thinks, to begin with, but it’s falling loose around his face now, the weight of it shifting around him with every rattling swing he takes at the dummy. He looks entirely absorbed, from the set of his shoulders to the unthinking focus in the dark of his eyes; Izaya thinks he could stand here for hours wholly unobserved, with nothing to stop him from staring but his own self-consciousness. He lingers for another minute, watching the rhythm of Shizuo’s blows and tasting nostalgia like the bittersweet of dark wine on the back of his tongue; and then he lets himself tip harder against the corner of the wall next to him, and crosses his arms over his chest into the appearance of languid relaxation, and he takes a breath to speak.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your edge,” Izaya calls, pitching his voice loud so it will carry clearly over the distance and the sound of Shizuo’s blows alike. Shizuo is in the middle of a swing when Izaya speaks, the heavy two-handed sword in his hands halfway through an arc towards the practice dummy; his head still turns immediately, his whole attention veering sideways without even finishing out the motion of the blow. The sword lands against the edge of the dummy, bouncing back with more recoil than usual from Shizuo’s inattention, and Shizuo stumbles to the side in answer to the force without looking away from Izaya watching him. Izaya lets his smile pull wider and flash bright at Shizuo staring at him from the other side of the training ground. “It’d be a shame to let all that strength go to waste, after all.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says. He’s not speaking nearly as loudly as the other, but with the sound of his attacks on the dummy stifled to silence his voice still carries clearly enough for Izaya to make sense of it. “You’re here.”

Izaya unfolds his arms to spread them at his sides as if showing himself off. Shizuo stares at him for another moment, still looking shocked at the other’s presence; and then he takes a step forward across the field, and Izaya straightens with some effort so he can cross the remaining distance himself. Shizuo has almost twice the space to cover on his way to the edge of the fence but he spans it in half the time; by the time Izaya is drawing level with the edge of the grounds Shizuo has replaced his practice sword with the pile of the others and is pushing a hand through his hair as if to straighten it.

“I’d give it up,” Izaya advises him as he comes up to the edge of the fence and reaches out to catch at the top rung to brace himself. “You’re going to need a shower and an hour with a comb to work yourself back to presentability, I’m afraid.”

Shizuo grimaces agreement and lets his hand fall. “Sorry. I didn’t think I would be seeing anyone out here.”

Izaya lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I didn’t say I minded,” he says, and reaches out to touch against the open line of Shizuo’s collar. His fingertips catch at the fabric, his hold tugs against the other’s shirt for a moment; and then he lets his hand fall again so he can return to bracing himself at the fence. “I wouldn’t expect you to be dressed for a ball if you’re just coming out here to destroy our practice dummies. Are you not satisfied by the swathe of destruction you caused in Boscan, that you feel the need to come here and continue your cruel slaughter of our training equipment?”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “I haven’t broken any of your precious dummies.”

“Yet,” Izaya says. He leans forward to tip his shoulders in so he can rest his elbows against the edge of the fence and wind his freed fingers together in the space before him. “If you have that much free energy there are more interesting ways to make use of it.” He tips his head and looks up through his lashes at Shizuo in front of him. “Of course, if you prefer solo entertainment, I suppose that is your prerogative.”

Shizuo stares at Izaya for a moment. His shoulders are angled back, his stance uncertain; he looks like he’s thinking about flinching away, or maybe like he’s considering the possibility of leaning forward and in and hasn’t quite made up his mind to act yet. When he finally moves it’s to swallow with enough force that Izaya can see the shift of it work in the line of his throat. “I don’t do practice duels with other people anymore.”

“Is everything always about fighting with you?” Izaya asks, drawling the words onto mockery even as his skin prickles warm with the implication of those words and the unstated reference to his own presence they carry. “I wasn’t talking about dueling.” He dips his lashes into a show of consideration before he huffs and tips his head towards a shrug. “Not literally, anyway.”

“Oh,” Shizuo says. There’s a pause, another beat of silence so loaded Izaya can almost taste Shizuo’s uncertainty in the air. “I didn’t think you were that impressed with my dancing.”

“You shouldn’t make assumptions,” Izaya tells him. “You performed well enough. For a Boscan, anyway.”

Shizuo huffs a breath with the outline of a laugh and the heat of something very different. When he moves it’s to rock forward onto his toes before he takes a half-step closer; his shirt skims Izaya’s fingertips, the fabric catching against the other’s touch like it’s trying to wind itself around Izaya’s hold of its own volition. “Does Numora have that much of an advantage on dancing, then?”

“Naturally,” Izaya says. “It’s a matter of grace, isn’t it?” He catches his fingers against the bottom edge of Shizuo’s shirt and pulls very slightly, as if to urge the other in closer. Shizuo steps in at once, coming closer towards Izaya’s touch as he reaches out to catch his hands against the edge of the fence, wide of Izaya’s bracing elbows. “Your people have brute strength but you can’t beat a Numoran for elegance.”

Shizuo laughs again; a little softer, this time, a little warmer in the back of his throat. “I certainly can’t beat you in it.”

Izaya looks up. Shizuo is leaning in against the edge of the fence, his elbows locked out into the appearance of effort as he holds himself up; but the tension in his arms stops at his shoulders, it doesn’t make it anywhere near the softness in his expression and weighting behind his eyes. He’s just looking down at Izaya before him, with no trace of hesitation or mockery anywhere in his gaze or the set of his mouth; with the effect of his exercise still clinging to him it makes him look languid, satisfied and warm in a way that quivers heat straight down the whole length of Izaya’s spine as he looks up at the other. They gaze at each other for a moment, Izaya with his fingers still catching in Shizuo’s shirt and Shizuo leaning in so close over the edge of the fence that he’s all but casting Izaya into his shadow; and then Shizuo’s gaze falls, his attention sliding down with all the inevitability of gravity, and Izaya can feel himself go warmer just for the weight of Shizuo’s attention clinging to his lips. Shizuo keeps staring for a moment, for a span of time enough for Izaya’s cheeks to darken with color in spite of the bite of the wind around them; and then he lifts his hand from the fence, and reaches out to touch his fingertips just against the dark of Izaya’s hair.

“The wind,” he says inanely, as if Izaya can’t feel the catch of the breeze whipping through his hair to ruffle it around his face. “It’s…” and he trails off to silence, his voice giving way as his fingers slide in and back to tuck the lock of hair back behind Izaya’s ear. It’s a simple gesture, an easy one Izaya never thinks of when he’s taking the action himself; with Shizuo’s fingers drawing across his skin it’s friction in his veins, it’s fire in his chest. Izaya’s head tips of its own accord, his neck curving to make a suggestion for Shizuo’s fingers, and Shizuo follows the guidance, his hand drawing in and back to slide his thumb against the delicate skin behind Izaya’s ear, to trail his fingers across the rhythm of the other’s pulse in his throat. Izaya’s lashes dip, pulled in on a weight he can’t resist, and Shizuo is leaning in, ducking closer as if to pick out every detail of Izaya’s skin under his touch by sight as well as by feel. They’re almost against each other, Shizuo’s breathing is spilling over Izaya’s jawline and Shizuo’s fingers are sliding up and into Izaya’s hair; in Izaya’s periphery he can see Shizuo’s lashes dip, can track the shift of the other’s attention flickering down to him. Shizuo takes a breath, swallows hard; and then, very softly:

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, the words a whisper against Izaya’s mouth. “Can I?”

Izaya lets his eyes shut, lets the pattern of his heartbeat fill his thoughts for a moment. He can feel every shift of Shizuo’s too-fast breathing against him, can taste the adrenaline on the other’s inhales as if they’re his own. Shizuo’s hand is bracing steady against him, his lips are trembling with expectation; Izaya can feel the want between them like a physical presence turning every inch of air between their bodies radiant with heat. He lingers in it for a moment, savoring the strength of it, savoring the power of it; and then he flattens his hand against Shizuo’s shirt, spreading all his fingers wide to brace against the tension of the other’s stomach.

“You didn’t say please,” he says, and he pushes even as Shizuo huffs a breath of half-disbelieving laughter. The force is gentle, barely more than what impact the wind offers; but Shizuo still takes a step backwards, submitting to the intent of Izaya’s touch more than the strength of it. His hand lingers at Izaya’s hair for a moment, his fingers drawing down and over the line of the other’s neck like he’s clinging to the heat of Izaya’s skin; and finally his hand drops away to his side again.

“God,” Shizuo groans, his voice rough and dark in the back of his throat. “Are you a sadist or something?”

Izaya’s mouth flickers against a smile. “Something like that,” he agrees. He lifts his hand from Shizuo’s shirt and up instead, reaching out to brush his fingertips just against the line of the other’s jaw; Shizuo’s lashes dip, his lips part, and Izaya smiles and lets his touch fall again. “Go break apart another one of our training dummies, Your Highness.”

Shizuo takes a step back but doesn’t turn around to return and collect the practice sword he was using; Izaya can see his lips shift like he’s working over words before he takes a breath to give them voice. “Will you stay here?”

Izaya shrugs. “I suppose I don’t have anything better to do,” he says, and waves his hand to shoo Shizuo away. “Go entertain me, Boscan.” Shizuo huffs a laugh and turns away in obedience to Izaya’s demand; Izaya is left to lean in over the edge of the fence and settle himself into as much comfort as he can find against the tremor in his legs and the chill of the wind ruffling through his hair.

It’s not the most relaxing situation, but with his heart aching on the masochistic pleasure of deprivation, there’s nowhere else Izaya would rather be.


	15. Translated

“Do that motion again.” Namie’s voice is unflinching, her tone too fixed to allow for even the possibility of refusal; she might as well be speaking to the lowest of the servants rather than someone technically her liege lord. “Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

“Strictly speaking you do,” Izaya mumbles, low enough that Namie can ignore him even if the words are clear; but he obeys anyway, lifting his left knee as high as he can manage before the jolt of pain running up his hip and against his back urges him to stop. Namie doesn’t even look up at his face; she’s kneeling at the floor alongside him, frowning hard at the motion of his legs as if they have personally offended her. Izaya sets his foot back down with careful intent, grimacing at the ache as he rocks himself sideways to work out some of the strain from his hip. “Is that sufficient? Would you like me to offer another round of exercises for your appreciation?”

“No,” Namie says in clipped tones that wholly disregard the mocking syrupy-sweet in which Izaya has drenched his voice. She pushes to her feet in a single quick motion and folds her arms over her chest with a gesture of finality. “I knew it,” she declares, and lifts her head to pin Izaya in place with a flat stare. “You’re overworking yourself.”

Izaya frowns at her. “First you nag me for months about doing my exercises, now you’re unhappy that I’m working my legs?” He pushes up against the support under his hands, tensing his shoulders so he can take some of the strain off his aforementioned legs. “Make up your mind, Namie, do you want me to get better or not?”

“I want you to  _heal_ ,” Namie says, with so much sharpness on her tone that the ostensibly friendly statement comes out like an insult. “Which is neither what you were doing nor what you  _are_  doing. Wandering all over the castle unassisted is too much for you yet, you’ll just hurt yourself again continuing like that.”

“I’m not  _wandering_ ,” Izaya counters as Namie turns to move back towards her desk and the sheaf of papers she has laid out across it. “I’m going on the walks  _you_  told me to.”

Namie gives him an exceedingly flat look from across the room. “You’re not doing them because I told you to,” she says with brutal accuracy on the words. “Traipsing across the palace grounds to stalk your Boscan boyfriend is not the same thing as a metered effort towards improvement.”

Izaya can feel his cheeks burn with instantaneous color. “He’s not my  _boyfriend_ , don’t be absurd.”

A single dark eyebrow raises almost all the way to Namie’s hairline. “Indeed,” she says in a tone of deep skepticism. “What noun would you prefer, pray tell?” She straightens from her desk and braces a hand at her hip as she fixes Izaya with the full dark of her focus. “Betrothed seems a bit too forward even for you, but I suppose I wouldn’t put it past you. Is lover more to your tastes?” Her head tips, her lips purse. “Maybe pet would be more accurate. You certainly like to treat him like one.”

Izaya presses his lips tight together and lets the brace of his arms go so he can plant his feet flat on the floor again. “I’m done here,” he says. “Have fun making up your little fantasies on your own, Namie.”

“They’re certainly better than whatever lies you’re telling yourself,” Namie fires right back. “What are you gaining from this denial?”

“Goodbye, Namie,” Izaya calls as he moves for the door. “Speaking with you is, as always, anything but a pleasure.”

“Same to you, Your Highness,” Namie tells him as she looks back down to the papers spread across her desk. “Tell your prince to do a better job helping you. I’m not going to have you breaking your legs just as soon as I’ve got you on them again.”

“They’re my legs,” Izaya tells her. “I’ll tell him nothing of the sort, I’m not obligated to follow your orders.”

“Yes you will,” Namie says calmly. “Or I’ll tell him for you.”

Izaya looks back over his shoulder. Namie glances up at him from under the weight of her hair; there’s no trace of insincerity anywhere behind her eyes. Izaya stares at her for a minute, looking for a hint of sympathy he can’t see any sign of; and then he hisses and turns back to drag the door open.

“See you tomorrow,” Namie calls behind him. Izaya doesn’t bother looking back to see her before he steps out and into the hallway with force enough that he can feel the jolt of it run up the whole of his legs. He stands outside the door for a moment after it’s closed, head ducked forward while he breathes deep and waits for the flush to clear from his cheeks; and then he lifts his head, and straightens his shoulders, and turns to make his way down the hallway with as much grace as he can force from his exhaustion-shaky legs.

He can see Shizuo leaning against the wall at the far end of the hallway; the other has proven more than obedient to Izaya’s orders to escort him wherever he’d like to go around the castle halls or the palace grounds. Izaya’s hardly about to bring Shizuo in with him for his exercises -- he’d rather spare himself the audience, for one thing, and for another he doesn’t want to tempt fate by having Namie’s biting commentary in the same room as Shizuo, even if she hadn’t expressly forbidden the other’s presence -- but Shizuo is always right here when Izaya finishes, whether the session takes five minutes or an hour. Izaya likes the idea of it, of Shizuo preferring to wait for him to reappear rather than occupying himself with any of the other temptations the castle has to offer; it makes him smile as he makes his way down the hallway, moving a little more slowly than usual after the session inside.

Shizuo doesn’t look up to see Izaya for the first little while. His head is turned away, his gaze fixed outside to the glow of the sunlight coming through the palace windows rather than in to look for Izaya’s approach; Izaya moves the more slowly for it, taking his time with his approach as much out of appreciation for the opportunity to watch Shizuo unobserved as for the relief it gives his aching legs. Shizuo’s slouched back against the wall, his hands in his pockets and his whole body reclined into an angle of comfortable repose; he looks like he belongs here, even if the Boscan colors embroidered down the sleeves of his coat are enough to give away his true allegiance. A change of coat would make him as comfortable here as he always appeared in the hallways of his own palace back in Boscan; Izaya’s footsteps slow further at the thought, stalling him in place in the middle of the hallway as he stares at Shizuo, caught in his own reverie for a moment of illusion. Izaya can imagine it with perfect clarity: Shizuo striding down these familiar halls with the easy tread of one born to them instead of the uncertainty of the visitor he still remains, even now. Shizuo smiling at the servants Izaya has grown up with, knowing all their faces as effortlessly as Izaya remembers their names. Shizuo here, in Izaya’s life, mundane and elegant both, with the overwhelming force of his presence as certain and warm as the glow of the sun on the other side of those windows; and Izaya takes a breath, and feels the strain of it catch at his chest as if to choke him. His eyes are aching, it’s hard to keep his vision clear even as he blinks hard against the burn; and then there’s a shout, a tone so chipper it echoes off the wide hallways of the palace, and Izaya can see Shizuo’s head turn to track it in answer. Shizuo’s straightening, rising to his full height as he turns to look down the hallway crossing the one they’re in; and Izaya is moving again, giving over elegance in exchange for speed as he rushes forward to catch up to Shizuo as quickly as he can.

He knows that voice, after all.

“No,” he says as he approaches the corner, speaking loudly so his voice will carry even before he’s made it into sight. “We don’t want to talk to you, go away.”

“Aww!” That’s familiar too, the plaintive whine that breaks up towards something a little bit like a laugh; Izaya reaches out to brace himself at Shizuo’s arm as he rounds the corner, stalling himself with his hold against the other so he can turn his full attention to glaring at Mairu and Kururi pressing up against Shizuo’s other side. It’s Mairu speaking, of course; she juts out her lower lip and tips her head to the side as she blinks a show of wide-eyed innocence up at Izaya. “But we just want to talk!”

“Monopoly,” Kururi mumbles.

“Yeah,” Mairu says without turning around. “You can’t keep the handsome prince to yourself all the time. We ought to have a fair chance at seduction ourselves!”

“You’re  _children_ ,” Izaya tells them. “Shizuo doesn’t want to be bothered looking after you, I’m sure he has much better things to do.”

“Gardens,” Kururi suggests.

“Like walk you around the orchards?” Mairu says. “Or maybe wait for you to get out of your exercises?”

“Shut up,” Izaya says. “It’s not the same.”

“It seems pretty much the same to me,” Mairu says, and then she lifts her head to turn her attention on Shizuo. “Just because you got into a fight doesn’t mean you have to help him around everywhere. We  _do_  have servants, you know.”

Shizuo clears his throat with awkward force. “I, uh. I don’t mind.”

Mairu considers Shizuo for a long moment, her wide eyes fixed full on his face; but it’s Kururi who speaks from her sister’s shadow, mumbling over her words so all Izaya can catch clearly is “Done for.”

“Wow,” Mairu says, speaking far more clearly than Kururi behind her. “Miss Namie was right. Brother really  _does_  have you wrapped around his finger, doesn’t he?” Izaya can feel his face heat with self-consciousness, can feel the casual weight of his hold on Shizuo’s arm like it’s gaining sudden force and clarity under the implication of Mairu’s words, but Mairu is turning away to Kururi behind her and heaving a sigh as she reaches out to offer a hand to her sister.

“I guess we’ll have to hold out hope for the brother,” she says, the words ostensibly for Kururi but loud enough that Izaya can hear them with perfect clarity. Mairu closes her hand on Kururi’s and looks up to return her focus to Shizuo. “Is your brother as attractive as Izaya says he is?”

Shizuo blinks. “Huh?” He lifts his free hand to push through his hair, frowning confusion at the question. “I guess? Ruri thinks so, anyway.”

“I’m sure she does,” Izaya puts in. “As his  _wife_.” He pushes hard against Shizuo’s arm, jostling the other until Shizuo looks back down to return his attention to Izaya instead of his sisters. “Come on, Shizuo, let’s find somewhere a little quieter for ourselves.”

“Fine,” Mairu says, and pulls Kururi’s hand to urge them both farther down the hall. “We’ll just go talk to Mikage. At least  _she’s_  always fun.”

“That’s right,” Izaya calls after them. “Go work out some of that extra energy on the guard trainees, I think it’s been at least a week since you beat one of them black and blue.” He’s pulling at Shizuo’s arm even as he speaks, moving to urge them down the hall in the other direction without giving either of the other two a chance to respond. “Come on, quick, before they think of something else to ask about.”

Shizuo obeys the insistence of Izaya’s hold at his arm, moving to step forward even as he looks back over his shoulder at the other two. “Were those your sisters?”

“Unfortunately,” Izaya sighs. “Kururi’s the quiet one and Mairu can’t keep her mouth shut. You must have met them when you arrived.”

“Ah,” Shizuo says. “Maybe. I met a lot of people, I don’t really remember.”

Izaya glances sideways at Shizuo, where the other is still looking back over his shoulder at the girls retreating down the hallway; then he looks back to where they’re walking, fixing his gaze on the floor in front of them before he clears his throat with deliberate intent. “Suffering from regrets now, are you?”

“Huh?” Shizuo blinks and looks back to Izaya; Izaya keeps his head ducked and his eyes on the floor. “What are you talking about?”

“I  _did_  offer to introduce you when you arrived,” Izaya says. “Are they more charming than you realized?” He glances up at Shizuo next to him again. “It’s not too late for a marriage alliance, you know.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows go up, his mouth comes open. “What?”

“You could have your pick,” Izaya says. They’ve come to a halt in the hallway but he doesn’t move to urge them on any farther. “Mairu’s a bit flashier but I think Kururi might be more your type, you could go whole days without having to speak at all.”

Shizuo stares at Izaya for a moment; then he presses his lips together and ducks his chin down as his cheeks start to color. “Ah,” he rasps. “You mean your sisters.”

“Of course I mean my sisters,” Izaya says. “What on earth else would I--” and the obvious answer presents itself, and his words die in his throat. Shizuo glances up at him, his gaze coming up through the shadow of his lashes to meet Izaya’s stare; they only look at each other for a moment before Izaya turns his head away to fix his gaze out the window alongside them while he swallows hard and tries to push away his flush by sheer force of will.

“So,” he says, when he can trust his voice to do nothing more telling than grate in the back of his throat. “That’s a no for becoming my brother-in-law, then?”

Shizuo coughs with some force. “Yeah. No.”

Izaya pulls his shoulder up with some effort to appear careless. “Too bad,” he says, and looks away from the window so he can urge them back into motion down the hall. “So much for Mairu’s hopes and dreams.”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “She seemed a little more interested in Kasuka than in me.”

“He’s off the market,” Izaya says. “I assume so, anyway. Unless his betrothal was called off?”

“Not as far as I know,” Shizuo says. His steps are falling into pace with Izaya’s, his strides coming with a slow-smooth rhythm that makes Izaya think of a cool hallway, and muffled music, and the pattern of clumsy steps smoothed to elegance by strong arms supporting his shaky legs. “He’s on his engagement tour of the kingdom right now.”

“Ah,” Izaya says. “Is that why you got stuck with the diplomatic work?”

Shizuo’s steps don’t stutter, his pace doesn’t shift; Izaya couldn’t say how it is that he can sense the tension in the other’s body or the strain collecting in his shoulders. It’s something in the set of his wrist, something in the angle of his elbow that carries the sense of defensive strain clear to Izaya next to him.

“No,” Shizuo says, his voice almost as soft as Kururi’s, like he’s expecting Izaya to translate that one word as fluently as Mairu does for her sister. “That’s not why.”

Izaya doesn’t look up at Shizuo alongside him, doesn’t open his mouth to needle for more of a reaction than he’s already received. He just lifts his hand from his side, crossing it over his chest so he can press his hand against the support of Shizuo’s arm already holding him to a relatively steady pace, and he keeps his gaze on the floor before them, even when Shizuo tips his head to glance at Izaya from under the dark of his lashes.

It’s easier to find sincerity in silence than in speech.


	16. Realities

The diplomatic discussions, Izaya decides the next afternoon, are his least favorite part of the Boscan visit.

They were no more than a minor inconvenience on his original visit to the other country. They were a source of entertainment, if he’s honest, something to be enjoyed when Shizuo was present and skipped more often than not when he wasn’t. The wordplay that passed for the sham of a negotiation they conducted was enjoyable, in its own way, and of far more interest to Izaya’s eye was figuring out how to press against Shizuo’s hair-trigger temper to bring that attention swinging around towards him, to call the focus of those dark eyes to lock with his own. It had been a pleasure, albeit one that paled in comparison to the entertainment of the training grounds or the not-quite flirtation of formal dinners; but it wasn’t a terrible way for Izaya to spend his time, at least.

It’s different, now. Izaya isn’t even invited to the political discussions; perhaps out of consideration for his legs and the way they cramp up with too long in a single unmoving position, but more likely simply because he has nothing of value to offer beside being a distraction to the visiting prince. Izaya wonders if that knowledge has yet made its way to his father’s awareness, if it’s known that his presence might be more of a boon to Shizuo’s mood than a threat to it; but then, the word would have to come from Namie, who has never indicated the least interest in anything outside the infirmary, or Shiki, who Izaya suspects would prefer everyone in the room keep a more level head than otherwise. So the tactic goes unutilized, and Izaya is left on the far side of the doors to the discussion table, and left to his own devices for the duration of today’s daylight hours.

It’s hardly a surprise, he tells himself as he flips through the text before him without really reading any of the words. It’s remarkable that Shizuo has been able to miss as many of these conversations as he has; it’s inevitable that he would be necessary for at least some, the more so as vital topics postponed for want of his presence accumulate. He can’t be any more than a figurehead, intended to nod or frown at appropriate intervals at the cues of the Boscan diplomats that arrived with him; but sometimes even the appearance of power is vital, as Izaya well knows, and it would seem today is one of those days. It’s not as if Izaya is bored -- he’s more than capable of entertaining himself for a few short hours, after all -- but his thoughts are scattered, and his mind keeps wandering to the meeting going on below.

There can hardly be more than a few items to discuss; how much negotiation is there, in truth, when everyone present knows how thoroughly Numora has drunk of her defeat? There can be no use in trapping Shizuo in a room to sit through dull conversation over uninteresting topics; it must be an extended variety of suffering, Izaya thinks, for someone used to wandering all over the palace halls and venting what excess energy he retains after that on the training dummies by the practice grounds. He must be restless, bored and irritable and all but sparking with unfettered energy; the thought makes Izaya smile down at the page before him, his fingers trailing over the edge of the paper without seeing any of the carefully lined rows of text laid into the weight of the page. After all that effort to keep Shizuo happy, it’s amusing to think the Numoran delegates have perhaps done precisely the opposite; Izaya wonders what they will think, to see the foreign prince more restless and frustrated by a day of conversation than he has been with Izaya during the whole of his visit to date. The thought glows against the inside of Izaya’s chest and huffs the soft of a laugh past his lips; and he’s pushing back from the table at once, leaning away from the desk so he can close the book without bothering with marking his place. Even diplomacy has its limits, and the sun is beginning to sink towards the horizon on the far side of the library windows; the discussions must be drawing to a close soon, in time to let the attendees take the break to change into the fine clothes they are expected to muster for dinner, and Izaya has been sitting still for long hours. He could do with a walk to stretch his legs and pace some elegance back into his stride; and if his path takes him past the doors to the meeting room, well, the diplomats ought to thank him for the positive effect he’ll be able to have on the most honored of their visitors. Izaya pushes to his feet carefully, bracing himself at the edge of the desk while he lets his legs steady enough to be certain of his balance; and then he reaches to collect the book, and moves to set it back on its shelf before he emerges from the library to make his way through the palace halls.

The corridors are gold in the failing light, cast to ever-darkening shadows and a color that turns even the plain pattern of the walls around Izaya to something valuable and shining. He can see it playing over his skin as he walks past the windows, can watch the light flicker and shift with every step he takes; there’s something striking about the beauty of it, of these few moments between full daylight and the darkness that will bring the servants out to light the candles set waiting in alcoves and scones lining the walls. They’re emerging even as Izaya paces down the halls, glowing tapers braced in their hands as they step out into the hallway before ducking into polite bows to the royal heir; Izaya spares them a nod but doesn’t wait to watch the corridor come alight with candlelight enough to chase back the lingering color of the sunset into shadows. He’s moving forward instead, ahead of the glow of the candles like he’s pulling the night in his wake; and then he turns the corner, and nearly runs right into the blue of a Boscan jacket.

It’s not the one Izaya’s looking for. That’s clear from the not-enough height and the too-narrow shoulders, even before he stumbles backwards enough for the other to duck into a bow and murmur “Apologies, Your Highness” in an unfamiliar voice. Izaya acknowledges this with a nod and a wave of his hand before he steps forward to maneuver around the stranger; but he’s moving more slowly, now, his gaze fixed down the hall instead of on the space just before his feet. The negotiations must be concluded, to leave the Boscan delegates free to wander the halls before the event that dinner will be, and that means Izaya is as likely to bump into Shizuo in the halls as he is to make it to the meeting room in peace. He could see him around any corner, could find him pacing down any of these familiar corridors; and if Izaya’s breath catches faster, if his pace smoothes to greater elegance, at least there’s no one to call him out on the tells for the adrenaline glowing warm as candlelight in his veins.

He doesn’t see Shizuo. He makes it down a handful of corridors, his steps slowing with every step he takes as if to give himself a chance to fall into an accidental meeting instead of an intentional one; but if Izaya’s breath catches with every glimpse of blue cloth or pale hair none of them are coupled with all the other details that make the whole of Shizuo himself. Izaya can feel his heart racing as he draws closer, as his encounter with the other becomes more certain with every forward step he takes; and then he turns the corner, and he’s gazing right at the door to the meeting room, and there’s still no sign of the person he’s been expecting to meet around every turn. Izaya moves forward in a rush, almost running in spite of himself in his haste to reach the door; and then he’s laying his hands to the weight of it, and drawing it open, and coming face-to-face with the man just about to push the door open himself. Izaya’s breath rushes out of him as he looks up into dark eyes, a set mouth, a creased brow; and then he’s stumbling backwards, drawing back out into the hallway as his mouth draws down on a frown, as petulance takes the upper hand from what politeness he can muster for the familiar man before him.

“Shiki,” Izaya says, aware that dissatisfaction is clear on his voice and too off-balance to restrain it. “What are you doing here?”

Shiki raises one dark eyebrow all the way to his hairline. “I have been helping your father conduct the affairs of state,” he says, in a perfectly level tone that stands the more sharply in contrast to the inanity of Izaya’s question. “We’ve been meeting with the Boscan delegation all day. We only just concluded the talks.”

“Yes, thank you, I can see that for myself,” Izaya snaps. “I do appreciate you taking on all the effort of ruling in my absence, of course. Soon you’ll hardly have need of me at all and I can while away the whole of my days at my leisure.”

“Indeed,” Shiki says, his voice absolutely flat without any acknowledgment of the bite on Izaya’s words. He lifts his shoulder into a shrug, tipping his head into it to grant it deliberate force. “Unfortunately I’m afraid your father has requested that you do make an appearance at tonight’s farewell banquet. I was on my way to inform you of the same, in fact.”

Izaya snorts. “Of course I’ll be at dinner,” he says. “He should know, I haven’t missed one since…” and then the chilling force of realization makes it through his slowing thoughts to freeze at his lips, and his words die to silence as his expression goes slack with the first rush of cold horror. Izaya stares at Shiki for a moment, his eyes wide and unfocused as his mind skids backwards to replay the other’s words, to strip them of their show of politeness and down to the bare bones of their meaning; and then he presses his lips together, and he swallows hard, and he reaches for words.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice sounds distant, strange in his own ears, as if he’s hearing someone else put structure to the words rather than feeding back the resonance from his own chest. “What was that?”

Shiki could pretend not to undertsand. If he wanted he could raise his eyebrow again, could tilt his head into the illusion of uncertainty, could withhold the clarification Izaya can feel frosting chill down the whole of his spine. Namie would, Izaya is sure; even Mairu might, if she were feeling particularly coy or especially amused by his desperation. But Shiki just meets Izaya’s gaze without flinching, without so much as blinking, and when he answers directly Izaya thinks he could kiss him for relief, were it not for the weight of the words he offers.

“Tonight is the farewell banquet,” he says. “Our Boscan guests will be departing with the dawn to return to the borders of their own kingdom.” Izaya’s breath rushes out of him, gusting so loud it sounds almost like a whimper in his ears; Shiki doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “Your father seems to be under the impression this would be a relief to you.” Shiki doesn’t say anything about his own impression, but the flat attention of his gaze is more than enough to convey the meaning for him.

Izaya presses his lips together as hard as they will go, until he can feel the pressure draining them to the bloodless white of the most intent he can muster. His hands curl to fists at his sides; he can feel his fingernails digging in hard against his skin. Shiki is still watching him, his expression utterly unreadable and endlessly patient; the perfect facade of the loyal subject he plays at being. Izaya stares at him, wondering how much truth there is to that facade, wondering if he’ll ever be able to know for sure; and then he takes a hard breath through his nose, and parts his lips to let it hiss free of his lungs. “Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know,” Shiki says immediately, without hesitating; like he was waiting to be asked, as if he has been holding this answer in readiness on his tongue for the moment Izaya spoke. Izaya’s shoulders tense, his fingers cramp on strain; but Shiki is already turning his head and nodding down the corridor the way Izaya came. “He was the first out of the room upon our conclusion. I can’t make a guess as to where he was headed.” His gaze slides to Izaya, his eyes fix dark attention on the other. “Someone with a better understanding of His Highness could likely make a more accurate prediction.”

“Yes,” Izaya says, looking down the hallway rather than up to meet Shiki’s weighing gaze. “They could.” He shifts his feet, turning to return back the way he came; and then, just for a moment, he glances back to Shiki standing in the doorway. Shiki’s holding the door barely open, just enough for them to speak through the space but not enough to let anyone within catch a glimpse of Izaya himself; his gaze is still on Izaya, with nothing of judgment or amusement either one in his expression. He’s just watching, observing without commentary, taking in all the information Izaya is offering directly or otherwise to store it behind the mask of his eyes. It makes Izaya’s skin prickle with self-consciousness, tightens his shoulders on the uncomfortable awareness of being watched, of being  _ seen _ with far more attention than he is accustomed to; and then he lets his gaze fall, and lets his head duck into a nod of acknowledgement instead of the brittle, transparent mask he’s been clinging to.

“Thank you,” he says, very softly over the uncomfortable taste of sincerity at his lips; and then he turns and strides down the hallway in the fastest walk his legs will bear. Shiki doesn’t call after him, and Izaya doesn’t look back; it’s only when Izaya hears the soft sound of the door settling back into place behind him that he takes a breath, and leans forward, and drops into the awkward, limping run that is the fastest motion he can muster under the present circumstances.

Namie would chide him for this, he knows, if she could see him; but Izaya doesn’t care if he never walks again, so long as he finds Shizuo in time.


	17. Accord

Shizuo’s not at the training grounds.

It’s the first place Izaya goes, carried on that unthinking rush of adrenaline that sends him stumbling down the palace halls that have never seemed so impossibly long before. He’s outside before he’s realized what he’s doing, shoving open the first door he comes to and toppling out onto the gravel paths winding through the gardens; but there’s no time for him to waste wandering through the neat lines of flowers, no chance to admire the way the colors of the sunset look through the branches of the trees overhead. He’s too busy moving, half-running down the path without consideration for the slip of his soft shoes against the gravel or thinking of what he’ll do if he catches his toe against a rise in the ground and loses his already precarious balance; there’s nothing in his mind but the immediacy of his panic, the overwhelming sense of time bearing down on him as if with a physical presence against his shoulders. He’s gasping for air by the time he makes it to the training field, his throat raw and protesting the chill in the air with a cough that doubles him over the railing at the edge of the field and leaves him wheezing for air past watering eyes; but he doesn’t need clear vision any more than he needs the illumination of full daylight. There’s no Shizuo, no sound of a heavy practice sword slamming into the untouched training dummies and no tangle of blond hair to catch the last dregs of daylight as they fade from the sky; the grounds are entirely deserted, absent any indication of a human presence beyond Izaya’s own. Izaya paces through them anyway, stumbling over the steps as his legs start to cramp up in protest, as his first surge of adrenaline gives way to the cold misery of futility; but there’s no one and nothing, no sign that Shizuo has ever been here at all, no indication that he’ll ever be here again. Izaya checks each alcove, pacing out the whole border of the training grounds with painful, deliberate intent; and then finally he’s left staring at the last of them, and the empty shadows within, and he can feel desperation catching in his chest in exchange for the sense of hope slipping through his fingers. His eyes are hot, his vision hazy; and Izaya blinks hard, and turns away, and starts the long, limping process of returning to the castle while he forces back the knot in his throat and the heat behind his eyes.

He goes through the gardens, after that. The light is fast fading from the sky, as the onset of dusk strips Izaya of the clarity of his vision; but his eyes are adjusting enough to hold to the general shapes around him, and he’s sure he could pick out Shizuo from across the span of any of the gardens. He tells himself he’ll find the other around every corner, tells himself with the approach to every arched entrance that Shizuo will be there, inexplicably wandering the gardens in the falling night instead of at the dinner to celebrate his departure; and every turn gives him nothing but shadows, and disappointment, and the chill of the wind to settle his growing resignation into the very marrow of his bones. Izaya keeps going, struggling forward in spite of the ache in his legs, in spite of the protest at his knees and hips and the painful chill spreading into his fingers; and then he lifts his head, and he finds himself at the last of the gardens, the one enclosed on three sides instead of just two. It’s a beautiful space in daylight, one Izaya hasn’t been able to visit in the long months since the war; in other circumstances he would be happy to be here again, would relish the opportunity to revisit the nostalgia of this previously-beloved haunt. But now, in this moment, with his legs shaking under him and his hands curled to fists at his sides, all he can manage to do is shut his eyes in the last, final attempt he can make to hold back the tears that have been choking him his whole desperate struggle forward.

He almost stays there. The garden paths are long and winding; even the shortest path back seems insurmountable, when he turns to consider the way he came. It was almost impossible to make it this far, even with the fuel of desperate need to urge him forward; now all he has is despair, the weight of it creeping deeper into his veins with every struggling step he takes, until it seems like it might be easier to just drop to the ground where he stands, to just lean against the wall at his side and shut his eyes and let himself give up the last of his strength in the form of the rush of tears he wants nothing more than to sob out of the tension against the inside of his chest. But someone will come looking for him eventually, with the conclusion of dinner or the full weight of night; and however much Izaya may want to give up, he absolutely refuses to do so where someone else might see. He has very little pride left to him, at this point; but that just makes it an easier weight for his aching legs to bear. Izaya ducks his head, and takes a breath of the cold air around him; and then he lifts his chin, and opens his eyes, and forces himself to take the first step back along the path towards the castle.

It’s colder than he realized. A coat was the last thing on his mind in that first frantic rush; he was halfway to the training grounds before he even noticed the wind, and too desperate to make his way there to even think of turning back. But there’s nothing to heat him now, not the desperate flare of necessity nor even the meager glimmer of hope, and every step forward seems to strip him of a little bit more of what heat he’s still holding to. By the time the castle doors draw in sight Izaya is hunched in over himself, his arms crossed tight over his chest and his shoulders so tense they’re cramping almost as badly as his legs; he’s too cold to speed his steps, it’s only the glow of candlelight from within the palace walls that urges him forward over the last few feet. He reaches for the door, gritting his teeth against the easing of his grip on himself that is required just to reach out and pull the weight open; and then he’s stepping inside and into the relative warmth of the hallways around him.

Izaya stands at the door for a moment, his arms wrapped tight around himself and his shoulders shaking with the force of the chill rippling through him. It’s hard to catch his breath, impossible to stop himself from shaking; he thinks he could be standing before the entire Boscan delegation and still lack the strength to force himself into the appearance of composure. He’s just tired, cold and miserable and too exhausted to make any attempt at pretending to anything else; but the hallways are empty, utterly absent any audience to either judge or pity him. Izaya isn’t sure if he’s more disappointed or grateful for that absence; it hardly makes a difference, at any rate. He stays right where he is, forcing himself to stay on his feet while he lets the tremors of cold ease from his shoulders and fade out from his fingertips; and then finally he lets his arms fall to his sides, and he lifts his head, and he turns to make his way down the corridors.

He has no idea how long it’s been since his brief conversation with Shiki in the hallway outside the meeting room. It feels like it could have been five minutes ago; it feels like a lifetime has passed since then, as if everything Izaya was before that brutal epiphany is so far gone it’s impossible for him to ever lay hands to it again. He had been so enthusiastic, he remembers, as if recalling memories belonging to someone else; so excited to see Shizuo around every corner, so hopeful for the possibilities of the evening. His steps had been easy, then, drawn slow by the savouring of anticipation rather than by necessity; now he’s limping, clinging close to the walls alongside him in case he needs to throw a hand out and catch himself in the event his aching knees give way unexpectedly. He had been warm, then, smiling and bright as he appreciated the beauty of the sunset spilling out into the hallway; now he can barely lift his gaze from the floor before him, barely notices the warmth of the candlelight filling the corridor around him. There’s a party in the dining hall, he’s sure, music and conversation and the bright, brittle smiles of diplomacy to see off the visitors, to send them on their way in true Numoran style; and Izaya wants nothing more than to find his way to his bedroom, and lock the door behind him, and pull his shaking legs in against his chest as if they’ll serve as some sort of armor for his heart, as if the damage hasn’t already been done with too many careless flirtations, with too many lingering touches and appreciative glances. Maybe he could change into something formal and make a late arrival to the dinner below; but disappointment is icing Izaya’s hope to resignation before it starts, bitterness is too steeped in his veins for him to draw it free. Shizuo won’t be there, after all his effort; or Izaya won’t get to speak to him, even if he is able to catch a glimpse of yellow hair from across the span of the banquet hall. Even if they speak there won’t be enough, not enough time and not enough privacy and not enough words, not to say what Izaya needs to say, what Izaya can feel pressing against his throat like honey ready to turn to poison if left to linger unvoiced. But there is no one to hear, he has spent his last chance without even realizing it; and so Izaya ducks his head, and reaches to brace himself at the corner as he turns the corridor leading to his room. His steps are dragging, his breathing is catching, he’s losing the fight against the emotion spilling up his throat with every step he draws closer to privacy; and then there’s the gasp of an inhale, the sound of it too familiar for Izaya to possibly mistake for the servant it could be otherwise, and Izaya’s head is jerking up in instant response even before:

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo blurts, relief audible as a sob on his tone as he strides forward down the hall he’s clearly been pacing along to meet Izaya. He’s almost running, jogging over the distance as if he’s afraid Izaya will run if he waits, as if he’s unwilling to waste even a heartbeat of time. He comes in too fast, his boots skidding so he has to make a grab for the edge of the wall alongside Izaya’s own hold; but when his other hand comes up to reach for Izaya his touch is gentle, featherlight against the fall of the other’s hair in the moment before he catches himself enough to snatch his fingers back.

“Izaya,” he says again; his voice softer, the name warmer on his lips. “You’re here.”

Izaya stares at him. It’s too much, too startling; after hours of fruitless searching, after resigning himself to failure and loss, to have precisely the person he’s been aching for appear in front of him as if by magic is too much for his frayed nerves to bear. Shizuo looks frantic, from the tousled mess he’s made of his ponytail to the undone cuffs of his sleeves; his shirt is rumpled at his collar and loose at his hip, pulling up under the blue of his vest where he hasn’t bothered to straighten it. Izaya blinks at Shizuo, wondering if this is an illusion, wondering if he’s dreaming; and then Shizuo draws a shaky breath, and Izaya can feel his eyes prickle with heat so great that he closes his mouth at once in a desperate attempt to fight back the weight of the tears too long repressed and ready now to drag themselves free by force. He should duck his head, should tip forward to cast his hair over his features, to hide the giveaway of the emotion behind his eyes; but Shizuo is gazing at him with more softness than Izaya has ever seen in his face before, as if he’s offering up the whole of his heart behind the dark of his eyes, and Izaya can’t make himself look away, can’t turn aside from the warmth in Shizuo’s gaze and the pain trembling against the other’s mouth any more than he ever has been able to.

“I was waiting for you,” Shizuo says, his voice very soft, almost a whisper, as if he’s confessing for Izaya’s ears alone. “I needed to see you tonight, before--” His voice caves in against the edges of a gasp, his forehead creases hard on emotion. “Izaya, I’m leaving.”

Izaya rasps a breath. “I know,” he says, hearing the words in a stranger’s voice, that same distant tone he used with Shiki, before, when the first realization of this truth hit him. “I heard.”

“I had to see you,” Shizuo says again. “I didn’t know where you were but I thought you’d have to come back here, eventually, before…” His words die off again, like he’s skirting the edge of some abyss between them, but Izaya hears them all the same:  _before I go_ , sharp as a blade to cut far deeper into him than any battlefield blow. Shizuo’s jaw tightens, his lips press together; when he ducks his head Izaya can hear the hiss of his breath, can hear the effort straining in his throat. His hands tighten at his sides, his shoulders hunch close towards his ears; Izaya can’t blink, can’t look away, can’t so much as take a breath for how hard his heart is pounding, for how distant his thoughts are from himself.

“I wanted to see you,” Shizuo says, without lifting his head. “I needed to say goodbye.” He takes a breath; when he looks back up his eyes are brilliant in the candlelight, the shine of wet over the color turning them to endless softness. “Izaya, I--”

“Kiss me.”

It’s a stranger’s voice, an unknown tone; Izaya hears the words in his ears before he tastes them on his tongue, before he feels the echo of them fitting against the inside of his ribs. He feels like everything is working in slow motion, like his heart is hammering out minutes instead of seconds with every beat, like he can watch every detail of shock break over the pain carved so clearly into Shizuo’s face. Izaya can see the crease at Shizuo’s forehead unfold, can watch the strain at his lips go slack as his mouth drops open; he can see the dark of the other’s lashes shift as his eyes come wide, can see the angle of his shoulders dip as he gapes at Izaya. Izaya stares back at him, feeling like he’s far distant from himself, as if he’s watching Shizuo’s reaction from the safety of inches behind his eyes; and then Shizuo catches a breath, and says “What?” so softly Izaya can barely hear the word for the roaring in his ears.

“Kiss me,” Izaya says again. He’s sliding back into himself, dragged into the space of his own body by the force of self-consciousness, by the heat flushing all through his wind-chilled skin; but his lips are still moving, his voice is speaking on his behalf even as he blinks hard to try to keep his gaze steady, even as his voices catches an edge to hold back the press of tears still trying to wrest themselves free of his throat. “You may not be accustomed to taking orders but you are still in Numora, and as heir to the Numoran throne my word is absolute.” He presses his lips together as tight as he can to hold back any whimper of sound as he swallows, feeling dizzy and shaking helplessly through what feels like every part of his body. “Kiss me, Shizuo.”

Shizuo’s lashes dip, Shizuo’s lips part. For a brief, terrifying moment Izaya is afraid he’s going to say something, is going to offer protest or amusement or any kind of coherent response enough to break through the fragility of Izaya’s facade, enough to set loose the flood of tears Izaya can feel burning just behind his eyes and choking in his throat. But then Shizuo’s gaze drops from Izaya’s eyes to Izaya’s mouth, his breath spills from him in a rush; and Izaya is left to gasp for a desperate lungful of air as Shizuo lifts his hand back to Izaya’s hair to catch and press against the dark weight of it. Izaya opens his mouth as Shizuo’s fingers press to the back of his neck -- to speak or sob or plead, he doesn’t know which -- and then Shizuo ducks in, and his lips meet Izaya’s, and Izaya’s thoughts scatter like leaves in a wind. Shizuo’s mouth is against his, Shizuo’s lips are pressing warm to his skin; and then Shizuo makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and his hand is dropping from the wall to reach for Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya’s lashes are fluttering shut as his whole existence disintegrates, as all the hard-won structure of his life collapses to the simple friction of Shizuo’s mouth on his. Shizuo’s hand is against the back of his neck, Shizuo’s fingers are bracing close against his shoulder; and Izaya can’t breathe, Izaya can’t think, Izaya can’t speak. There is wet at his cheeks, the tracks of tears overflowing his eyes to spill unrestrained down across his skin; but he doesn’t think of it, doesn’t try to fight them back. He’s surrendering, he’s melting, he’s giving way everywhere Shizuo touches him; and then Shizuo draws back, just by an inch, and Izaya can taste the breath he rasps against the other’s mouth.

“You’re freezing,” Shizuo says in a voice like dusk, with so much texture on the words Izaya can feel them hum against his mouth. “Where have you been?”

Izaya doesn’t think about lifting his hand from his side, doesn’t think about giving up the support of the wall under his hold. The movement comes instinctively, his body responding to the withdrawal of Shizuo’s touch at his mouth the way his lungs would balk at the removal of air. His fingers seize to a fist at Shizuo’s vest, his grip crumpling hard at the fabric without consideration for the value of the embroidery under his hold, and when he pulls it’s with similar force, enough to stall out Shizuo’s retreat at the very few inches the other has managed to put between them.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Izaya says, the words dragging over the back of his throat until they come out as strained as a sob, grating down into a range he could never hit were he trying; and then he reaches up, and clutches hard at the back of Shizuo’s neck, and when he pulls himself in towards the other he can feel the huff of Shizuo’s exhale rush hot over his parted lips the moment before he catches Shizuo’s mouth against his own with force enough to stifle anything more coherent out of hearing. Shizuo makes another soft sound in the back of his throat, far against the inside of his mouth, and Izaya tips his head, and parts his lips, and licks against the heat of Shizuo’s mouth to seek out the taste of that noise against his tongue. Shizuo whimpers again, his lips part in reflexive surrender, and then his hands are pulling in, and Izaya is arching closer, and control is forgotten, dominance giving way to harmony as easily as their bodies fit in and against each other.

Izaya’s fingers are still trembling, but he’s never been warmer in all his life.


	18. Pledge

It’s more of a challenge than it should be to make it around the corner and into the bedroom.

Ordinarily this would be a simple task. Izaya knows these hallways, knows these corridors from a childhood spent running down them and the last months of limping back from exercises and banquets alike; were he alone he thinks he could find his way blindfolded, even struggling along with the support of the wall under his fingers as he was when he rounded the corner and found his waiting audience. But he’s not blindfolded, and it’s not his legs that are keeping him where he is; it’s Shizuo, the solid line of his body and the temptation of his mouth and the whole distraction he offers an insurmountable barrier to Izaya doing anything else. Izaya can’t seem to pull himself away, can’t stop kissing against Shizuo’s mouth to taste the heat of his lips and shifting his grip on Shizuo’s clothes to reach up and out, to press himself closer and wind his fingers tighter into hair or shirt or vest to keep Shizuo as flush with his own body as he can. Shizuo submits to all of it, offering up his surrender as instantly as he parts his lips to give over the heat of his mouth for Izaya’s taking; and when he responds it’s in kind, as his hand weights hard against the dip of Izaya’s spine and his fingers sink far into the soft of the other’s hair. Izaya is happy to lean into the support, to give the line of his body over to Shizuo’s keeping; and that sends them stumbling backwards, Shizuo retreating down the hallway as Izaya fumbles for some kind of balance over his shaking legs. His steps are unsteady, as much from his distraction as from the ache of overexertion shaking through the whole of his body; but there’s no chance of him falling, not with Shizuo’s hands bracing him upright. The feel of it is heady, dizzying enough to pull a moan from Izaya’s chest that stifles itself to a whimper against Shizuo’s lips; and Shizuo growls response, rumbling over the noise as he presses in hard against the give of Izaya’s mouth on his and licks in past the other’s lips with determined force. Izaya topples back, giving way to Shizuo’s advance as his shoulder catches against the wall, as Shizuo turns to pin him back against the support behind him, and for a moment Izaya is held still like that, caught between Shizuo’s hands on him and Shizuo’s lips against his and the immovable resistance of the wall at his back.

Shizuo draws back by a breath, just enough to gasp for air and tighten his fingers into Izaya’s hair. “Izaya,” he manages; his voice is huskier now even than it was before, dark and smoky enough to match the weight of his lashes over his eyes as he looks down at Izaya with so much heat in his stare that Izaya has to wonder if he’s seeing anything at all. “I--” He blinks hard, he shakes his head. “I don’t want to go.”

“Good,” Izaya says. He presses his hand flat against Shizuo’s chest, lingering over the rhythm of the other’s heartbeat for a moment before wrapping his fingers to a fist around the brocaded vest and pulling with force as if he intends to drag Shizuo closer even than he already is, as if Shizuo could possibly be any nearer than where he is, with the full span of his body running Izaya up against the wall at his back. “Don’t go. Stay with me.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases, his breath huffs out of him. “I can’t,” he says. “I have to...the delegation, I have to go with them.”

“Stay,” Izaya says again. It’s not the command he was offering before, not the order he gave with his cheeks flushed and his shoulders shaking; he’s not speaking with the weight of royalty on his tongue, isn’t making a declaration of intent from the height of his position. He’s just speaking, just giving that one word back to Shizuo’s protests; because there’s nothing else he can give, not really, he’s never really had anything more to offer than that one plea. “Please.” He eases his hold in Shizuo’s hair, unclenches his fingers enough to slide in and against the back of the other’s head; when he lifts his chin it’s with his lips parted on invitation, with the overt offer of seduction curving against his mouth. “Stay with me, Shizuo.”

Shizuo makes a soft sound, something hot and low and hurting. “Izaya,” he says, his voice breaking over the other’s name; and Izaya pulls against his hair, and he lifts his head, and he catches back whatever answer Shizuo might give against his mouth. Shizuo groans against his lips, his hand at Izaya’s back slides down to flatten against the other’s hips and urge Izaya’s body in tight against his own, and Izaya lets his fist of Shizuo’s vest go so he can reach sideways instead to fumble against the smooth of the wall alongside him. It’s hard to think, hard to keep his mind on what he’s doing when Shizuo is kissing bruises against his lips and tracing out the inside of his mouth with his tongue; but then his fingers catch metal, and Izaya is shoving hard against the latch at his door to wrest it open by force more than grace. The door comes open alongside them, swinging into an invitation as Izaya’s hand draws away, and Izaya gasps a breath as Shizuo draws back to blink heat-dazed attention at the room next to them.

“Stay tonight,” Izaya says; and he reaches up to seize at Shizuo’s vest again, to tug enough to urge Shizuo’s attention back to his face. Shizuo looks down at him, his eyes dark and his mouth red, and Izaya meets his gaze without flinching, staring up at the other even as his skin prickles with heat, even as his hands tremble where he’s bracing against Shizuo before him. He can see Shizuo’s gaze flicker over his face, can see the strain of something almost pained against the other’s forehead as Shizuo’s attention lingers at his mouth, as his throat tightens over a swallow or maybe some unvoiced protest; and then Shizuo ducks his head into a nod, and Izaya is lifting his head for a kiss even before Shizuo grates out “Okay” as if it’s a surrender on his lips. Izaya’s hands urge Shizuo down, Shizuo ducks in over him; and this time when their mouths come together Shizuo’s hands shift too, his hand at Izaya’s hips sliding in and down to catch the other’s weight and pull Izaya up and against him. Izaya lets himself be lifted without resistance, more glad than otherwise for the relief from supporting himself on his much-abused legs; and besides, the shift brings him in closer and lets him wrap both his arms close around Shizuo’s shoulders as he leans in to urge him into the satisfaction of a lingering kiss.

Shizuo is breathing harder by the time Izaya lets him go, his lashes so heavy Izaya wonders if he’s paying attention to his vision at all; but when he turns to move towards the door there’s no more hesitation in his steps than there is the least sign of effort at holding Izaya’s weight against one arm. He just moves, stepping forward as easily as if he’s entirely unburdened to cross over the threshold of Izaya’s room. He lets his hand at Izaya’s hair go so he can push the door shut behind them, turning to watch it like he’s thinking about fumbling through the effort of locking it as well; and then Izaya pulls against his hair, and says “Leave it,” pressing the words close against the corner of Shizuo’s mouth. “It’s my bedroom, no one comes in here without my permission.”

Shizuo huffs a breath, sounding more than a little skeptical, but he’s turning away from the door all the same to return his attention to Izaya, to turn his face in towards the part of Izaya’s lips. “Am I one of the chosen few?”

“You’re the chosen _one_ ,” Izaya says, and punctuates with a hard kiss against Shizuo’s mouth. “Take me to bed, Shizuo.” Shizuo’s breath catches, hissing in the back of his throat as if with near-pain, or maybe just a rush of surprise; but he ducks in to kiss Izaya’s mouth instead of fitting words to a protest, and when he moves it’s to step forward across the room obediently. Izaya shuts his eyes, and fists at Shizuo’s hair, and when Shizuo kisses against the corner of his mouth and works down against the line of his neck he lets him, turning his head to the side without resistance to offer up the curve of his throat to the other’s lips. Shizuo groans against his skin, a sound incoherent but weighted with crystal-clear meaning all the same, and Izaya opens his eyes to let his attention flicker hazily over the familiar details of his room, to let his focus skim and skip from one to the next as Shizuo’s mouth works down his neck and to the edge of his shoulder, where the lacings of his shirt are holding his collar close against his neck. Shizuo stalls there, gasping for air so close that Izaya can feel the heat of his breathing spilling against the inside of his collar and shuddering warmth all across the span of his chest; and then Shizuo leans in, and Izaya tips back, and they both half-fall onto the soft of the bed behind them.

Shizuo doesn’t even hesitate. Izaya is sprawling over the blankets, blinking up at the hangings overhead while his thoughts whirl, while his body trembles with heat; but Shizuo is sliding down over him, his hands catching to brace at Izaya’s waist and hold the other still while he draws down over Izaya’s chest, staying as close as if he’s trying to inhale the other right through the weight of his clothes. Izaya’s back arches, his body curving up to meet Shizuo leaning over him as his fingers slide in against the other’s hair and tangle into the strands; and then Shizuo’s hands are sliding down his hips, and Shizuo is gasping against his stomach, and Izaya feels like all his skin is glowing under the weight of his clothes, as if the burden of the fabric against him is suffocating, unbearable, something he has to free himself of immediately. Shizuo’s head tips down, his breathing shudders against the top edge of Izaya’s pants; and Izaya moans far in the back of his throat, his knees angling wide into reflexive invitation. He can feel Shizuo’s fingers clutch at him, can hear the whine of air in the back of the other’s throat as Shizuo hisses an inhale; he tightens his hold on Shizuo’s hair and pushes against the bed to sit up at once, to straighten from his sprawl over the sheets so he can tip in and over Shizuo leaning against him. Shizuo draws back as Izaya sits up, sliding back over the bed as his head lifts, as he looks up to gaze heavy-lidded attention at Izaya over him, and Izaya sinks both hands into Shizuo’s hair to brace the other’s head between his palms.

“Shizuo,” he says, feeling the vowels of the other’s name resonate at the inside of his chest, tasting the slur of them like honey on his tongue. Shizuo’s lashes flutter in answer; his hand at Izaya’s hip flexes tight for a heartbeat. Izaya dips in closer, leaning in until his mouth is almost touching Shizuo’s, until his lips are all but skimming the other’s. “Kneel.”

It takes Shizuo a moment to respond. Izaya can feel his heart racing in his chest, can feel his hands trembling with the heady combination of arousal and adrenaline and power all together, coursing through him with as much intoxication as too much wine. He wonders if he’ll have to repeat himself, to make Shizuo listen to the meaning of his words and not just the sound of them; but then Shizuo gusts an exhale, and pushes back and away across the smooth line of the blankets beneath them. Izaya follows him, drawing closer to the edge of the bed as fast as Shizuo pulls back, staying near enough that he can keep his fingers where they are in Shizuo’s hair; and then he’s sitting against the edge of the mattress, and Shizuo’s knees are hitting the floor, and when Shizuo looks up at him there are shadows enough in his eyes to make his understanding perfectly, absolutely clear.

Izaya doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. His body is speaking for itself, he thinks: from the strain of his pants drawn tight over the heat of his cock to the part of his lips to the tremor of his fingers in Shizuo’s hair, he thinks his own state would be more than clear even if Shizuo weren’t as near as he is, even if Shizuo weren’t close enough to hear the catch of anticipation in Izaya’s breathing. But Shizuo is so close, close enough to press his palms to the inside of Izaya’s knees as he urges the other’s thighs open, close enough to turn his head in to huff an exhale against the inside of Izaya’s wrist; Izaya watches his lashes dip, watches Shizuo’s focus flutter into the surrender of heat even as his hands draw up the inside line of the other’s thighs to press soft fabric close against Izaya’s legs, as if he’s mapping the shake of exhaustion that Izaya hasn’t been able to quell since the ill-advised haste of his desperate search. The weight of Shizuo’s touch certainly isn’t helping him now; Izaya can feel the heat of the other’s palms soaking through his clothing like it’s not there at all, as if he’s tinder catching alight at the least suggestion of the flame Shizuo bears at the tips of all his fingers. Izaya curves in closer as Shizuo’s hands wind higher, his fingers curling in to brace against the back of the other’s head as his breath catches to such speed he sounds nearly like he’s sobbing; but Shizuo doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch back. His hands just slide higher, pushing up against the whole inside line of Izaya’s thighs like he’s savoring the give of them, like he’s trying to memorize the thrumming tension under his palms by touch alone, and then his thumbs slide up, his fingers draw in to press against the front of Izaya’s pants, and Izaya moans outright, his lungs flexing to spill such heat that it sounds like darkness itself, like he’s swallowed back the shadows of the fallen night to offer to the sun-gold of Shizuo’s hair. It’s a giveaway, an admission, as much of a surrender as the one he offered on that muddy battlefield all those months ago, but Shizuo doesn’t flinch, this time, doesn’t even hesitate as his fingers find the lacings at the front of Izaya’s pants to unravel the knot holding the soft cloth tight to his skin.

Izaya is quivering, now, his whole body rippling in waves of tension in answer to every shift of Shizuo’s hand against him as the other presses his palm in close to grind against Izaya’s length with one hand as his other draws open the strain of the laces keeping them apart; but Shizuo doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause. His fingers tug the laces loose of the fabric, his palm grinds in even as he draws up and away; and then his touch is sliding down into the fall of the loosened cloth, and Izaya’s eyes shut of their own accord, Izaya’s breath rushes from him in voiceless heat as Shizuo’s fingers slide in and over the heat of his cock inside his pants. Shizuo’s pulling at the fabric, urging the cloth down and aside to leave Izaya bare for his gaze, for his touch, for his attention, but Izaya is clutching at Shizuo’s hair, his fingers curling in against the locks with absolute disregard for the form of the ponytail still struggling for traction at the other’s disheveled hair. He feels dizzy, lightheaded, as if he’s losing track of where he is and what he’s doing, and then Shizuo braces his fingers at the base of Izaya’s cock, and his head ducks in and down, and Izaya’s whole body comes alight at the feel of Shizuo’s lips parting against the head of his cock as the other opens his mouth to take Izaya in and over the heat of his tongue.

Izaya has no chance to compose himself. He’s thought of this before, distantly, in the darkest hours of the night when there’s no one to see the visions behind his tight-shut eyes, when there’s no one to hear the name that tears from his lips with the rush of pleasure through his body; but in his imagination he’s always regal, aloof, reclined back with no more than a flutter of his eyelashes or a curl of his fingers to speak to his appreciation. But this, now, in the reality and not the fantasy: he’s curling in and pressing tight over Shizuo against him, his whole body canting forward as if to urge as close to Shizuo as he can get. Shizuo’s hand braces at his hip, his fingers digging in tight to hold Izaya in place as he draws back over him, as his lips slide up and against the flushed heat of Izaya’s shaft, and Izaya groans, “ _Shizuo_ ” pulling free of his chest with as much force as if it’s a plea all on its own. Shizuo comes back down at once, without hesitating for even a moment to give Izaya a chance to catch his breath, and Izaya lets his head fall forward, lets his attention fix close against the yellow of Shizuo’s hair caught between his hands and the motion of the other’s head shifting over his hips.

Shizuo’s fingers are pressing hard into his hips, Shizuo’s hold is drawing Izaya forward against the edge of the bed; one of his thumbs has slid inside the dip of Izaya’s waistband to settle flush against the other’s bare skin, printing tight against him as if to leave the mark of his touch lingering even after he lets go. Letting go seems to be the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, though; he’s barely pulling away from Izaya long enough to take a hasty stroke over the other’s length, his hold is utterly unflinching where he’s bracing to Izaya’s hips. Izaya can’t catch his breath, can’t clear his thoughts; every time he tries to focus on the weight of Shizuo’s grip on him, or the drag of Shizuo’s tongue against him, or the huff of Shizuo’s breathing spilling down over his hips, the reality of it seems to disintegrate again as his grasp on the present moment cracks and gives way. This is impossible, this can’t be happening, this is his imagination run wild; but Shizuo is too warm against him to be an illusion, his grip is too unshakeable to be a fantasy, and Izaya can still feel his mouth aching dully with the bruised-in force of the other’s kisses clinging underneath every dragging breath he takes. His heart is racing, his hands are trembling, and he doesn’t want this to stop but he can’t stop himself, can’t even slow the rise of heat surging up into him. His knees are tipping in, his thighs flexing tight against Shizuo’s shoulders as he tries to brace himself in place, as his fingers curl to fists in Shizuo’s hair; and then Shizuo presses in close, his throat working like he intends to swallow down the whole heat of Izaya’s body at a single go, and Izaya’s lashes dip, his throat strains over a groan that sounds taut with desperation even to his own ears.

“Oh god,” he whimpers, his ears ringing, his voice skipping. “Shizu--” and his voice breaks off as Shizuo presses in closer, as Shizuo’s hold at his hips drags to urge Izaya closer to the edge of the bed. His lips are dragging up over Izaya’s cock, Izaya can feel the shift at the back of Shizuo’s tongue pressing against the flushed heat of the head; and his head goes back, his lips part, and he’s groaning, spilling Shizuo’s name into a wail of heat as his hips jerk with the force of his orgasm breaking to wash over him. His legs are flexing with involuntary force, his whole body trying to press closer against Shizuo before him, and Shizuo is pulling him in too, his grip locking Izaya into place as Izaya comes in shuddering pulses of heat over his tongue. Izaya’s vision hazes, his shoulders tip in, and for the span of long, endless heartbeats all he knows is the grip of Shizuo’s hands, and the press of Shizuo’s lips, and the heat of relief breaking over and through him.

Shizuo doesn’t pull away at once. He lingers, staying close even as his fingers at Izaya’s hips ease, even as Izaya blinks and pants himself back into something like coherency. It’s only when Izaya finally loosens his grip in Shizuo’s hair that Shizuo starts to slide away, and even then it’s only by a few inches, just enough to free his lips for a panting inhale as he lifts his head to look up at Izaya over him. His lashes are dark over his eyes, his mouth is red and wet from his efforts; Izaya’s spine prickles just with the sight of it, with the evidence of his own pleasure showing so clearly in the soft of Shizuo’s lips and the wet clinging to his tongue. He’s leaning in before he has a chance to think, ducking in close as he tips his head to match his lips to Shizuo’s, and when Shizuo huffs an exhale Izaya is there to catch it at his lips and kiss it back in and over Shizuo’s tongue. He lingers for a moment, drawing the contact long so he can catch the taste of himself off Shizuo’s lips, can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat slow from desperation towards something like contentment; but there’s still strain in his fingers, still an ache of want down in the depths of his stomach, and when he pulls away from Shizuo’s mouth it’s with his fingers drawing tight against the other’s hair to brace him still for the weight of Izaya’s words at his lips.

“Take off your pants,” Izaya tells him. He can see Shizuo’s lashes dip, can feel the heat of the other’s exhale gusting over his mouth; and then he’s letting his hands slide down and bracing at the other’s shoulders to push him away instead. Shizuo falls backwards, his weight rocking back over his heels with the boneless surrender he is offering to Izaya’s force, and Izaya takes advantage of his movement to slide back over the bed himself, pulling away from Shizuo’s hold so he can draw his legs up onto the mattress next to him and straighten his posture before reaching to begin unfastening the buttons at his vest. Shizuo’s attention drops to track the movement, his gaze visibly catching itself to stillness against the flex of Izaya’s fingers as he works the clothing open; Izaya lets him stare for a moment as he undoes the last button and lets the vest fall open. Shrugging it off his shoulders is a simple movement, it requires no thought at all; and then Izaya catches the fabric in his fingers, and reaches out to toss it over the edge of the bed and into Shizuo’s face.

“Of the two of us I have the better claim to incoherence,” he observes, as Shizuo recoils from the forceless blow and reaches to draw the vest away from his face. “Was I right all along about your grasp of language? You do a better job of pretending at understanding than I would have thought possible.” Shizuo lifts his gaze, frowning confusion at Izaya; Izaya meets him with a raised eyebrow and the start of tension at the corner of his mouth, in spite of his warm cheeks and half-undone clothes. “Take off your pants, Shizuo.” Shizuo goes on staring for a moment, looking like he really is struggling the understand the simplicity of the words; and then his cheeks darken and he ducks his head down with a sharp inhale. Izaya keeps watching him, tugging at the laces of his shirt without looking away from Shizuo moving to push to his feet and reach for the fastenings of his vest; it’s only when the other has clearly begun the process of stripping that Izaya returns his attention to his own clothes and divesting himself of them as quickly as he can.

There’s a lot of layers. Izaya has become intimately aware of this fact during the struggle that dressing himself has been over the last months of his painfully slow healing; it’s no more pleasant to deal with now, when he’s in more of a hurry than otherwise to strip himself down to bare skin. His shirt unlaces easily, at least, the tension at the collar giving way to loose weight around his shoulders and wrists as rapidly as he can ease buttons from their holes and undo the tie under his chin; but he still has his pants mostly on, and that is more of a difficulty under the circumstances. He tugs his shirt up and over his head while he’s still frowning over the problem, reaching out to toss it aside as he considers his legs stretched out over the bed alongside him. His shoes are an easy matter -- the thin soles did him few favors during his frantic search outside, but at least they’re easy to slide off his bruised feet with just a tug against the heels -- and his stockings are no greater challenge, but then he’s left with just his pants, and the cling of cloth against cramping muscles, and no elegant way he can see to strip himself of their weight. Izaya grimaces at the awareness of this, at this impossibility of any simple way to get himself free; and then he gives up the hope of grace, and surrenders to topple back over the sheets so he can work his fingers into the waistband of his pants and start to struggle loose of them. He gets his thumbs in under the fabric, braces his heels against the bed so he can try to lift himself up and get an inch of motion, and then:

“Wait,” Shizuo says, his voice rough with haste, and the bed shifts with the addition of another person’s weight. “Let me.”

Izaya turns his head to look at Shizuo. He intends to refuse, to offer some cutting comment about his ability to divest himself of his own clothes without needing Shizuo’s help, regardless of how much he would appreciate the assistance; but then his gaze lands against gold hair, and bare skin, and all his grasp of language gives way as his attention slides down and over Shizuo coming in over the bed towards him. Shizuo has taken off his pants, and his shirt, too, he’s stripped himself down to skin in the time it took Izaya to draw his shirt free and contemplate the problem of getting his pants off his shaking legs. Even his hair is loose, by intent or accident Izaya doesn’t know which; it’s falling around his face in golden waves, tangling against the back of his neck like it’s calling for the press of wanting fingers. Izaya can see the shift of muscle across Shizuo’s shoulders, can follow the unthinking flex of effort against the planes of the other’s stomach; he can see the lean strength in Shizuo’s thighs that he’s only ever glimpsed beneath well-tailored clothing before, can watch the flex against the other’s arm as Shizuo braces himself at the bed alongside Izaya’s hip. And he can see Shizuo’s cock, can stare at the solid heat of it standing stiff out from his hips, can see the dark-flushed proof of the other’s desire heavy between his thighs. Izaya’s legs quiver, his spent cock twitches towards the start of heat at his stomach again; and he presses his lips together, and swallows hard, and lifts his hands up and away from his hips.

“Fine,” he says, with the most offhand dismissal he can possibly fit on that one word. “You can wait on me if you want. I need to get the oil anyway.”

Shizuo huffs a breath; it sounds like a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach enough volume to tighten the softness at the corners of his eyes with amusement. “Does your benevolence know no bounds?”

“Try and find out,” Izaya says; and then he twists to the side, turning over onto his hip so he can brace himself against the blankets with one elbow and reach up and out towards the drawer in the stand alongside his bed. He does need the oil, or he will in a minute, anyway; but more immediately the motion gives him the cover of his arm to shadow over his face and obscure his expression from Shizuo’s view. Part of that is for the pain -- Izaya’s legs are trembling with tension, now that the distraction of his arousal has eased enough to let him notice them, and he doesn’t want to startle Shizuo away by a too-obvious flinch of hurt -- but more it’s because Izaya can feel his whole body going hot at the thought of being stripped as bare for Shizuo’s gaze as Shizuo is for his. His cheeks are warm, his face glowing with some measure of the fire starting to collect at the base of his spine and low in his stomach, and he’d rather keep his expression even half-covered than leave everything clear for Shizuo to see. So he turns, and stretches for the drawer with the slick container of oil slipped into the back of it; and at his hips Shizuo’s hands tighten, and pull, and urge Izaya’s pants down and off his hips. There’s a catch of friction, a moment of resistance as the fabric stalls against his thigh pressing close to the bed, but Izaya just twists the rest of the way over to lie on his stomach so Shizuo can pull his pants down to his knees and off his feet. Izaya’s heart is racing, his breath is catching; but he’s still reaching for the bottle, and that gives him something to distract himself with while his skin is prickling to goosebump awareness of Shizuo’s gaze clinging to the tremor in his legs and the curve of his ass. He gets the drawer open and closes his hand around the bottle; and then, from the end of the bed where Shizuo is kneeling:

“Oh,” Shizuo breathes, his voice soft and purring in the back of his throat. “Izaya.” There’s a ghosting touch, the drag of fingertips pressing just against the dip of Izaya’s spine; Izaya shudders with it, his whole body going tight in answer to the weight of Shizuo’s touch against him. He can feel his cock hardening again, can feel the surge of heat swelling him to arousal where his hips are pressing down against the sheets; but when he gasps a breath to speak it’s with force enough to drag his voice to calm, to level off the sound of his speech until he sounds something like offhand as he reaches back to offer the bottle to Shizuo behind him.

“Here,” he says. After a moment he tips his head to look back over his shoulder too, keeping his chin angled down so Shizuo will see more shadows from his face than any kind of clarity. “I trust you know what to do with this?”

Shizuo’s breath gusts past his lips; Izaya can’t tell if the sound is more a groan or a laugh, but he’s reaching out to claim the bottle all the same. “I can manage,” he says, and then he’s lifting his hand from Izaya’s back to twist the lid of the bottle off so he can pour some of the oil within over his palm and coating his fingers. His focus is on what he’s doing, his frown directed at the bottle in his hand instead of Izaya before him; Izaya takes advantage of this momentary distraction to let his own gaze slide down, tracking over the planes of lean muscle across Shizuo’s shoulders and down against the darker flush of his nipples to the tension at his stomach and the heavy weight of his full cock. It’s dizzying to have so much of him to look at, strange to have a reality to match to the hazy fantasies that Izaya has used to fill this room before; Izaya can feel his heart beating faster at the thought of Shizuo’s hands on his hips, of Shizuo’s knees between his, of the heat of that cock pressing in against him to slide forward and into -- and he turns his head down against the sheets again, pressing his open mouth to the muffle of the blankets to stifle the whimper in his throat as Shizuo closes the bottle again and tosses it to land at the far side of the bed. The hand at Izaya’s back returns, fingers trailing down and over his spine to settle bracing-strong just over his hips; and then there’s another touch, wet with oil and slipping easy in against the cleft of his ass and down to press against the tension of his entrance. Izaya trembles at the contact, at the burst of warmth that flares up his spine to knot at the back of his skull as if it intends to override the whole of his awareness, and then Shizuo takes a ragged breath behind him, and pushes against him, and his touch slides up and in to sink into Izaya with the length of a finger. Izaya jolts with the strain of it, tensing against the strange, unfamiliar pressure of a touch not his own working up and into him; behind him Shizuo gusts an exhale hard enough that it drags over the edge of a groan and slides his touch back halfway to take another slow push in. He goes deeper this time, his finger working far into the tension of Izaya’s body, and Izaya has to shut his eyes and gasp for air against the feeling of Shizuo’s touch pressing him open. He feels stripped bare, like he’s laying far more than his body out across the sheets for Shizuo’s gaze and touch and use; it’s as if every thrust Shizuo takes with his finger is breaking down some facade, as if every pull back is stripping Izaya of some long-held lie. He’s trembling through his whole body, his exhausted legs and his braced-still hips and up into his shoulders, where the tension of his fingers clenching at the sheets under him is bleeding up into the whole of his body; and Shizuo keeps moving into him, feeling out the spaces Izaya has never bared to anyone else before, learning the feel of Izaya’s involuntary reactions as quickly as he wins them.

“Izaya,” Shizuo grates. Against Izaya’s hips his hand tightens, his palm pressing down hard against the other. “Are you okay?”

Izaya doesn’t know the answer to that. He’s aching, to be sure; his whole body is shaking with the force of his response to Shizuo’s touch, his legs and shoulders and back and breath all humming with strain he can’t resist. He’s not even sure he can give an answer to Shizuo’s question, isn’t sure he can frame coherent words against the open gasp of air at his lips. But he knows he doesn’t want Shizuo to stop, he’s sure he’s going to fall apart without those hands on him and that gaze holding him to steadiness; so he fills his lungs with breath, and he struggles to brace himself long enough to manage a response.

“I’m fine,” he says; not sure if he’s lying, not sure if it’s truth, now, if so much sincerity is being pulled from him that he can’t recognize the feel of the words on his lips. He catches another inhale; and Shizuo’s touch pushes into him, and he loses his breath to a moan, the heat of it breaking free from his control even as he strives for it. His fingers clench, his head tips down, and when he gasps words they come out in the shadow of his shoulders tensing over the bed. “Don’t stop.” Shizuo seizes a breath, the sound of shock as audible as the heat under the sound; and he obeys, and he keeps going, adding enough force to his motion that the heat in Izaya’s blood spikes higher, that another fragment of his coherency gives way entirely. He’s panting, now, his breathing coming audibly and his thoughts too dizzy to care; and then Shizuo presses against him with another finger, and Izaya groans openly as Shizuo works into him with his paired touch. He can feel the strain in his body, can feel the effort of taking the greater width into him; and he can feel his cock pressing down against the sheets, swelling thicker with every beat of his heart inside his chest, with every heat-ragged breath he drags into his lungs. Izaya’s hands are fists against the blankets under him, his forehead is pressing hard against the soft of the mattress bearing him up, but even then he’s sure Shizuo can hear the strain of desire in his throat, and he’s too flushed-hot to even find it in him to mind.

Shizuo keeps going. That hand against Izaya’s spine doesn’t shift, doesn’t so much as slide by an inch to get a better grip; Shizuo’s palm stays right where it is, with the force of his arm bearing down to fix Izaya firmly in place against the steady stroke of his oil-slick fingers working up and into the other’s body. Izaya doesn’t think he could struggle free even if he tried, as if he even wanted to make the effort; the awareness of that alone is heady in its own way, enough to jolt through his hips and buck him down against what resistance the weight of the sheets below him will give. He’s panting openly, now, his breath pulling free from him in time with each stroke of Shizuo’s fingers forward and into the tension of his body, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t want it to stop, so long as Shizuo stays where he is and keeps moving Izaya doesn’t have to think about the sounds he making, or the strain of his cock aching to heat against his hips, or the threat of the morning hovering long hours off, on the other side of the night. There’s only this moment, only this breath, this span of Shizuo holding him steady and Shizuo working inside him, and this is an infinity Izaya would gladly linger in.

It’s startling, when the loss comes. Izaya is shifting against the sheets, his knees bracing against the resistance so his shaking thighs can rock him back against the weight of Shizuo’s hold, can offer a rhythm of his own to match and meet the other’s. His breath is dragging on building tension, he can feel the pressure of it building deep down in his stomach, and Izaya didn’t expect to come from Shizuo’s fingers inside him but he’s too hot to wonder at his own responsiveness, too flushed with arousal to question the fact of it. It’s enough that his cock is spilling wet droplets across the flushed head, enough that his thighs are cramping with strain and his balls are pulling up against his shaft, enough to have Shizuo’s fingers pressing into him right there, at that angle, straining hard against his entrance to seek out that point of friction-hungry want within him; and then, just as Izaya’s breathing is going shallow with anticipation, Shizuo pauses his rhythm and stalls to stillness for a breath. Izaya’s inhale catches, his forehead creases on confusion; and then Shizuo is pulling back and away, moving with enough speed that Izaya only manages to moan protest as he loses the strain of Shizuo’s fingers inside him. He clenches down against the echo of pressure, feeling the absence of strain like Shizuo has stripped something away from him by the pull of his fingers, but before he can find words for a protest or a plea either one:

“Here,” Shizuo says; and there’s a hand against Izaya’s thigh, slick fingers pressing at the inside of his knee to urge his legs apart. Izaya’s eyes go wide, his breath spills from him, and he’s moving at once, spreading his knees open without hesitating over the picture he’s making of himself, over how much clear desire he’s showing in the speed of his action. He thinks he’d be willing to rock up onto his knees and press himself back onto the heat of Shizuo’s cock himself, aching legs or not, if that’s what Shizuo wanted of him; but Shizuo is moving without waiting for any action on Izaya’s part, drawing his knee up to fit between the other’s before shifting his weight so he can follow it with the other. His hand at Izaya’s back shifts away, pulling away from the other’s skin as he leans in to brace himself against the bed alongside Izaya’s hip, and Izaya is turning his head, his attention draw unavoidably back over his shoulder. Shizuo’s head is ducked down, his shoulders hunched in; he has his hand fisted around himself, is stroking the slick wet of the oil across his palm up over his shaft and coating the dark of his cockhead. Izaya’s thighs tense, his cock twitches anticipation against his stomach, and he has to duck his head again, has to shut his eyes and breathe deep against the soft of the blankets before him as a surge of arousal crests up and through the whole of his body. Shizuo’s weight shifts, his knees slide to press close against Izaya’s; Izaya’s hips angle up of their own accord, his thighs flexing as his spine arches to make an invitation of himself for the strain of Shizuo’s cock pushing into him. There’s a breathless span of anticipation, a moment where Izaya can barely catch his breath for the adrenaline coursing through him; and then Shizuo’s hand touches at Izaya’s hip, and Shizuo says “Wait,” and Izaya is groaning protest before he’s even lifted his head from the sheets beneath him.

“Are you _kidding_ ,” he spits, twisting to glare back over his shoulder at Shizuo behind him. “I thought you were done toying with me. After all this you want to stop _now_?”

Shizuo blinks, looking startled and lost; his forehead creases, his mouth tightens on a frown. “Toying with you?”

“Yeah,” Izaya snaps. “Didn’t you get enough of breaking my heart the _last_ last night we had together?” He pulls himself up over the bed, dragging his knees up under him so he can twist and turn over to face Shizuo properly, all thoughts of self-consciousness and his bare skin forgotten. “I thought you were going to give me at least this before you disappeared back to your country to forget all about me again, if you were just going to--”

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo says. There’s not even much volume to his voice; it’s not a shout, not a growl like it could be. It’s just certain, the sound so solid and unflinching that it breaks Izaya’s words off in his throat even before Shizuo leans forward and reaches out to catch at the back of the other’s neck. His fingers slide up over Izaya’s skin, his touch settles into the other’s hair, and Izaya’s lashes dip in spite of himself, all the tension in his expression giving way to the weight of Shizuo’s touch even before the other leans in to press a kiss to his mouth. Izaya whimpers against Shizuo’s lips, feeling the heat of tears prickle behind the pressure of his shut eyes, and then Shizuo draws back by an inch to gasp for air over Izaya’s mouth without pulling away.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, and it _is_ a growl, now, rough with force on the words. “I don’t want to stop.” His hand drops from Izaya’s neck to close at his hip instead and hold him steady as Shizuo presses in closer. “I just want to see your face.” Izaya can feel his face heat with something like embarrassment, as self-consciousness makes a bid to take over him again; but Shizuo is lifting his chin again, and kissing hard against his lips, and he can’t resist the urging of that any more than he can push back against the force of Shizuo bearing him back down over the bed. Izaya falls back to the blankets, his head landing against the soft give of the pillows at the end of the bed, and Shizuo leans in over him, bracing a elbow over Izaya’s shoulder so he can hold himself up as his grip on the other’s hip slides down to trace Izaya’s thigh and catch under the weight of his knee.

“I want to watch you,” Shizuo says, the words still so near to Izaya’s lips that he can taste the shape of them as they form. Shizuo’s hold is pulling at Izaya’s knee, tugging to tip his leg out over the sheets; but Izaya is moving on his own without needing to be urged, angling his thighs wide to make space for Shizuo’s hips between them. Shizuo’s breath spills against Izaya’s lips, Shizuo’s weight tips down and in; for a moment his cock is sliding heavy against the inside line of Izaya’s thigh, the slick heat of it pressing against the weight of Izaya’s balls and nudging against the other’s shaft. Izaya shudders with the friction, his hands come up to grab at Shizuo’s hair, at Shizuo’s hip, whatever he can reach to hold the other still, to urge him down and closer, and Shizuo lifts his hand from Izaya’s knee so he can reach down for himself instead.

“Izaya,” Shizuo breathes as he draws himself into position, as his body curves down and in to fit against Izaya’s. His nose presses against Izaya’s cheek; his mouth skims against the other’s lips. “I love you.” His thighs flex, his hips come forward, and the head of his cock slides up and into Izaya beneath him, the motion eased as much by the work of his fingers as by the slick of the oil smoothing the action. Izaya’s lashes dip, his lips part on a groan; and Shizuo is grabbing for his hip, his fingers tightening to brace Izaya in place against the strain of his cock pressing into the other as he catches a breath and pulls back for another thrust.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his cock slides forward by another span, the heat of it straining against Izaya’s inner walls as Shizuo moves over him. Izaya’s gasping, panting for air he’s having trouble finding; his knees are as wide as they will go, his whole body is trembling with sensation he’s making no effort at all to brace against. He’s just heat, radiant and glowing and giving way at every point to Shizuo pushing into his body, and at his shoulder Shizuo’s head ducks down, Shizuo gasps a breath against the fall of his hair.

“I should have kissed you,” Shizuo says, and his hips rock back, drawing away by a breath only to thrust forward again, to urge deeper into the give of Izaya’s body. Izaya’s eyes are open, he’s staring at the pattern of his bed hangings made blandly familiar by too many nights of insomnia; but they’re brilliant, now, cast into something entirely new by the immediacy of Shizuo’s body against his, Shizuo’s hands on him, Shizuo’s cock sliding forward into him with every flex of the other’s hips. “That last night in Boscan. I should have kissed you then, before you left.” Shizuo gasps a breath, sounding like he’s fighting for it; when his hips come forward this time they press flush to the inside of Izaya’s thighs, Shizuo’s skin glowing warm against Izaya’s own as Izaya clenches involuntarily around the whole of Shizuo’s length settled inside him, as if he means to hold them together by his own strength. His fingers tighten in Shizuo’s hair, he hears his own breath rasp over a straining inhale, and over him Shizuo shudders an exhale, pausing for a moment like he’s collecting himself.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Shizuo says; and then he draws back, his cock moving inside Izaya as he slides back before thrusting forward once more, and Izaya’s whole body seizes tight in answer, his legs and arms and back all tightening in response to the push of Shizuo filling him again. He’s clutching Shizuo close to him, holding the other against the shape of his body with the whole strength in him; but Shizuo is holding to him too, his hand is sliding from Izaya’s hip and around to settle at the curve of his back, to hold Izaya flush with his body as he keeps moving inside him. “I love you.”

Izaya’s fingers fist in Shizuo’s hair, Izaya’s fingernails catch to friction against Shizuo’s back. “Don’t go,” he gasps, struggling for the words past the strain in his body, the friction of heat, the ache of motion pulling within him as Shizuo keeps moving, as the rhythm of Shizuo’s body working over him draws his breath faster in his chest and urges his blood to pounding heat in his veins. “Shizuo. Stay here, stay with me.”

Shizuo whimpers against Izaya’s shoulder, his fingers tighten at Izaya’s spine. “I _can’t_ ,” he says, his words rejection even as his arm tightens to undermine his own statement, as his hips come forward to keep them together, to unite their bodies in another thrust of heat. “I have to go back with the delegation in the morning.”

Izaya squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back the burn behind them with as little success as he manages in trying to clear the tension from his throat. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo gasps, sounding pained and desperate; and then he’s lifting his head from Izaya’s shoulder, pushing up from where he’s been pinning Izaya to the bed. “Izaya, look at me.” Izaya grimaces, thinking about framing the words for refusal on his lips; and then Shizuo’s fingers touch his hair, pressing to what the other can reach where he’s holding himself up over Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya sucks in a sharp inhale and opens his eyes without thinking. Shizuo is leaning in over him, his cheeks flushed and his hair loose and his lips parted; his eyes are bright, they catch the glow of the candlelight until Izaya has to set his lips tight to keep from sobbing in answer to the brilliance of Shizuo’s gaze on him.

“I’ll come back,” Shizuo says, as his fingers settle into Izaya’s hair like he’s holding the other still. “I’ll go back to Boscan and I’ll handle the negotiations and I’ll come back for you, I promise I will.”

“You won’t,” Izaya says. “You’ll leave tomorrow and I’ll never see you again.”

“You will,” Shizuo says, and he’s ducking in closer, his forehead touching Izaya’s as if he’s trying to convey the truth of his words through direct contact as much as through the steady pace of their bodies moving together over the sheets. “I’ve done enough apologizing, I don’t want to have anything else to be sorry for.”

Izaya huffs a laugh in spite of himself. “Had enough of kneeling to me?”

He can feel Shizuo’s smile more than he can see it. “Almost,” Shizuo says, and then he’s pressing in to catch Izaya’s mouth with his, and Izaya is shutting his eyes again, giving over his dread of the future for the overwhelming pleasure of the present. There’s still tension in his throat, still heat burning behind his eyes; but Shizuo is urging in against the strain of his lips, and pulling Izaya impossibly closer against him, and Izaya’s breath is catching on something other than tears with every forward stroke Shizuo takes into him and every dragging slide of Shizuo’s cock sliding back and away. The rhythm is overwhelming, the force enough to override the rest of his attention, until by the time Shizuo is drawing away to gasp against his mouth Izaya’s hold has shifted, the brace of his fingers and the strength of his arms more to hold Shizuo in against him in this moment than to prevent the inevitable departure. Izaya’s vision is going hazy, even when he opens his eyes to fix his focus on Shizuo just above him; it’s hard to catch his breath, hard to find any thought for words at all. Everything is narrowing down, his worry for the future and his consciousness of the familiar space around them and even his awareness of his own body; the only thing he can hold to with any clarity is Shizuo, Shizuo’s hand at his back and Shizuo’s dark gaze fixed on him and Shizuo’s body moving against his, sliding back and driving forward to spark heat along Izaya’s spine, to curve him up and towards the unshakeable wall of Shizuo moving over him. Izaya’s gasping for air, his fingers in Shizuo’s hair curling in an attempt to steady himself instead of to hold the other still, his arm around the other’s waist clutching as hard as his knees are trembling around Shizuo’s hips between them; and he’s watching Shizuo’s face, watching color flush dark across the other’s cheeks and weight at his lashes as if drawn there with every motion he takes. Izaya’s cock is trembling with heat, he can feel it twitching between their bodies with each stroke Shizuo takes into him; and still Shizuo continues, his rhythm unflinching even as heat builds in Izaya’s body, even as anticipation strips Izaya of conscious control of his movement. His back is arching, his shoulders are flexing, his throat is drawing tight; and still Shizuo keeps moving, his gaze fixed on Izaya beneath him like he never intends to look at anything else, as if the whole of the world might as well be nothing at all in comparison to the one person before him. It makes Izaya feel dizzy, like he’s unravelling from himself, like Shizuo is pulling apart the pieces of his identity into something novel and unknown the same way he’s granted these four walls the priceless value of nostalgia; and then Shizuo pushes forward and into him, the flex of his stomach dragging over Izaya’s length pressing to him, and Izaya can feel strain building at the inside of his thighs, can feel anticipation knot itself tight against his chest.

“Oh god,” he gasps, and he’s tipping forward, his forehead pressing to Shizuo’s as he gasps for air off the other’s lips. “Shizuo, don’t stop.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo groans. “Are you--” and his knees are sliding wider by an inch, his thighs pressing close against the inside of Izaya’s as he braces himself. Izaya would protest the strain, the stretch running all the way up his cramping legs with the new angle; but Shizuo is moving faster, his rhythm speeding as his fingers dig in against Izaya’s spine, and Izaya doesn’t have breath for anything but a moan as his knees lock tight against Shizuo’s body between them, as he feels the heat in his stomach rise and spread to tighten the whole of his body under Shizuo’s. He feels like a bowstring drawing taut, like his whole existence is cresting to some impossible tension; and Shizuo keeps moving, urging him higher with every stroke, with every thrust, with every slick press of his cock sinking into Izaya’s body beneath his -- and Izaya gasps a breath, his thighs jerk tight, and he spasms into orgasm under Shizuo, his whole body jerking against Shizuo’s hold as pleasure rushes through him. His head goes back, his mouth comes open, a moan of Shizuo’s name breaks free of his throat; but all that is distant, far-off, unimportant in the face of the heat radiating through him in wave upon wave of satisfaction. He’s shaking with the force of it, his whole body tensing helplessly around Shizuo over him; and Shizuo is still moving, his rhythm breaking apart even as his fingers clutch at Izaya’s hair and press into the curve of the other’s back. It’s the sound of his voice that Izaya’s ringing ears parse first: “ _Izaya_ ” struggling itself free of Shizuo’s chest like it’s being forced from him, or like he’s dragging it free of some impossible tension, and then Shizuo’s hips jolt forward, his arm flexes hard around Izaya’s waist, and Izaya can feel the long shudder of Shizuo’s orgasm run through the other’s body and spill hot inside him. Shizuo’s hips stutter forward, his body arcing through reflexive motion as he rides out the heat of his orgasm; and then his legs relax, his hold eases, and Izaya can feel Shizuo’s shoulders go slack as he lets them both drop to the support of the mattress beneath Izaya’s shoulders. Izaya untangles his fingers in Shizuo’s hair, loosening his grip so he can stroke down and through the strands instead, and he fixes his gaze on the bed hangings overhead, and he lets his awareness spread and smooth to make an eternity of this one moment of perfect, complete satisfaction.

It takes some time for Shizuo’s breathing at his shoulder to ease. Izaya is in no hurry; his own heart is still pounding with adrenaline, his blood still rushing to such heat that he can feel the tremors of it in his fingers in Shizuo’s hair and slack against the span of the other’s back. The ragged edge of Shizuo’s exhales is more a comfort than otherwise, a proof that Izaya has a companion in the wave of desire that broke and eclipsed all his rationality for a brief span of time; and then Shizuo drags an inhale, and speaks against the line of Izaya’s shoulder beneath his lips.

“I’m going to come back.” His voice is rough, low and dark with lingering heat; Izaya thinks he could hear the proof of Shizuo’s pleasure just in the sound alone, even if he didn’t have the weight of the other’s body pinning him to his sheets and the heat of Shizuo’s spent desire inside him. Shizuo’s arm around Izaya’s waist tightens, his head presses to Izaya’s shoulder. “I swear I will, Izaya.”

Izaya blinks up at the hangings of his bed, feeling his throat draw tight, feeling his eyes burn. He spreads his fingers out across Shizuo’s back, letting the span of them sweep out across the sweat-glow of the other’s body. “And I’m meant to take the word of the Boscan prince?”

Shizuo stirs at his shoulder, turning his head to pillow himself against Izaya’s shoulder. “You should,” he says levelly. “Boscans are known for their honesty.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Shizuo huffs almost-a-laugh. “Will you?”

He’s half-amused, Izaya can hear it on his voice; there’s an edge of laughter there, a little bit of exasperation, warmth still glowing like firelight at the back of his throat. But Izaya can feel pressure behind his eyes and aching in his chest, and when he shuts his eyes it’s to hold back the damp threatening to spill over his lashes more than to block out the sight of the hangings overhead.

“Yes,” he says into the dark, without opening his eyes. “If you come back I’ll believe anything you tell me, Shizuo.”

There’s a pause, a breath of time long enough to let Izaya’s words sink into the weight of sincerity, to make themselves comfortable within an unfamiliar space. Then Shizuo lifts his head from Izaya’s shoulder; Izaya doesn’t open his eyes to look at him, but he doesn’t need to see to feel the soft of Shizuo’s mouth pressing very gently against the curve of his neck down to the line of his shoulder. His throat closes up, his lashes go damp with tears; but Shizuo doesn’t comment, and he doesn’t pull away, and Izaya doesn’t know which of those facts he’s more grateful for.

With Shizuo’s lips pressing against his skin, Izaya can almost trust him to do the impossible.


	19. Supplication

Izaya stays busy in the weeks after the delegation’s departure.

He doesn’t have much of a choice, at the start of it. His frantic rush around the palace grounds does more damage to his slow-healing legs than he realized that first hazy night; by the time their visitors are well clear of the castle Izaya has to rely entirely on Haruna’s support just to make his way back to his quarters, and from there he is relegated to bed as much by necessity as choice. That’s where Izaya stays for the next four days, with Shiki’s occasional visits and his sisters his primary source of entertainment; the only consolation is that Namie is apparently so livid about the hurt he did himself in direct defiance of her orders that she sends Mikage with orders for treatment rather than deigning to see Izaya herself. Izaya is more grateful to that than otherwise -- he isn’t sure he could bear Namie’s particular brand of bedside manner just at the moment -- and the reprieve gives him the span of his days to compose himself for the confrontation to come. By the time he’s recovered enough to make his limping way to the infirmary he’s braced against the onslaught of vitriol waiting for him there; and whatever Namie was expecting of him, silent obedience to her demands is apparently far enough from her anticipation to stifle her complaints at her lips. She gets no more than five minutes into her tirade before falling silent in mid-sentence to stare intently at Izaya; Izaya keeps his head down and keeps working through the rhythm of his exercises without meeting Namie’s eyes. He makes it through a half-dozen repetitions before Namie finally speaks, her voice still as clear as ever but stripped of some of its force just by the hesitation of quiet. “Lost your Boscan escort, then?”

Izaya doesn’t look up, doesn’t make eye contact with Namie. He keeps his gaze fixed on his legs, setting his jaw against the effort as he finishes out a repetition before he sets his heel back to the support of the floor and looks up to meet Namie’s attention with a level stare of his own. “What next?”

Namie meets his gaze for a long moment; the silence stretches long enough to cover everything she isn’t asking, everything Izaya isn’t answering. Finally she lifts her shoulder into a shrug, and drops her attention to the sheets before her, and lets the topic go in exchange for giving him the next set of stretches to work through. Izaya grimaces at the instruction -- his legs are already shaking and he doesn’t relish the effort required to push them to more -- but when Namie lifts her head to watch him again he ducks his, and sets his hands hard at his sides, and commences following her orders without protest.

The work pays off. Namie tells him it will be a month or more before he’s back to the point he was at to begin with, but by the end of the second week out of bed Izaya is walking again, if more slowly and with the constant attendance of Haruna or Mikage to catch his arm at the first sign of a stumble or a limp. It might not be the grace he laid claim to in the hallway with the muffled sound of music and strong arms to guide him, or the strength that let him wander the grounds for over an hour, even if Namie growls frustration over his misuse of that same; but Izaya keeps his focus on his daily improvement, tracking his recovery by the measure of his daily success instead of looking back to what he had or forward to what he can reach, and by the end of the first month he can see his progress without Namie’s notes to tell him of his tentative success.

It helps to have something to focus on. Izaya thinks he could win himself admission to the diplomatic conversations if he asked for it; his father is likely to grant him the role of silent observer as soon as he’s reminded of his son’s existence, and Shiki could fill him in on whatever details he needs in the gaps between one meeting and the next. But Izaya tells himself he has enough to focus on with his own recovery; and so he isn’t invited, and he doesn’t ask, and he measures the passage of time by the slow-building strength in his legs rather than letting himself notice the winter slipping past on the other side of the castle windows or counting the days that he has crossed in his slow, determined progress towards recovery.

It’s a victory when he’s allowed out of the castle unattended. The snow coating the ground outside stalls him for weeks, as he paces out the winter storms from within the warmth of the castle corridors with Haruna’s arm for support; but his strength builds with each passing day, until by the time the storm gives way to leave space for the gardeners to clear the paths Izaya has received official permission from Namie to walk through the nearest garden, as long as he stays warm and comes straight back in. He’s obedient to this too, however much the capitulation may twist petulance against his lips; and he’s rewarded by greater leniency and more allowance, until he’s pacing through the whole length of the gardens for the span of a full hour each day. It feels good, even as it leaves him trembling and exhausted with the winter-early fall of night; and then, one day, he lays a different path for himself, and he makes for the training grounds.

The field is coated in a thin layer of snow, the ground rough and treacherous with patches of ice that have been packed in under the feet of the guards that do their morning training here, regardless of how much bite there may be to the air or how fierce the wind may blow. Izaya can see the evidence of practice skirmishes printed in the pattern of boots laid into the snow, in the spaces in the middle of the field that have been cleared to hard-packed dirt while the edges remain heaped in chill white. The weapons are frosted with a thin layer of ice too, the effects of the storm knocked loose by use but still collecting cold from the ice itself to pattern the dulled steel with the tracery of ice wandering over the surface; Izaya touches his fingertip to one, just to see the way the cold gives way to melting wet underneath the weight of his touch. The space is empty, marked with the proof of recent use but absent any present occupants; except for Izaya, of course, standing at the edge of the field with his hands braced at the support of the fence as he looks out at the familiar space. He stands there for long minutes, just gazing, his mind wandering over paths he isn’t quite ready to admit to travelling; and finally he turns to make his way back towards the castle, his steps slow with consideration in spite of the cold in the air. He’s shivering by the time he gets back inside but he barely notices the chill; he goes to find a servant, first, to pass a message along to Mikage, before he submits to the demands of physical comfort and retreats to the comfort of his quarters and the warmth of a long bath to soak the ache of effort from his legs. Izaya submerges himself almost entirely beneath the surface of the water, dipping down until the warmth is lapping over his shoulders and against the line of his neck; and then he tips his head back against the edge of the bath, and he shuts his eyes, and he lets himself surrender to memory for a long, unmeasured while.

Mikage goes with him the next time he travels out of the castle, this time bundled in extra layers of clothing and bearing gloves to protect his hands from the bite of the wind. She frowns over the ice on the ground, kicking against it with a boot as if she can override the effect of winter itself by the force of a frown; but she doesn’t refuse Izaya’s request, even if the set of her mouth indicates the intensity of her misgivings. It’s hard to move through the familiar motions again, more for how much of a struggle they have become than because Izaya doesn’t recall them; but with Mikage to shout when his form gives way and to order him outright to stop after his allocated hour, Izaya can focus on what he’s doing without the distraction of other concerns. He keeps his mind firmly fixed on the motion of his feet, on the swing of his arm drawn so deliberately slow that it feels like he’s moving through the action of a dance instead of a beginner’s training exercise; and at the end of the session he hands his practice sword over to Mikage, and he turns back to return to the castle without waiting for her company. It might be better to keep someone at his side to catch his arm if he slips, or if the unusual physical exertion proves too much after all; but Izaya is willing to sacrifice a measure of security for a span of privacy, for the absence of an audience for the catch in his breathing as he makes his way back to the castle.

It becomes a regular occurrence, after that. Mikage makes herself available for the first handful of sessions, under strict orders from Namie that Izaya doesn’t bother to listen to; that’s what Mikage is meant to watch for, after all, and her demands that he keep from injuring himself are strict but far less scathing than Namie’s bitter tone. But even Namie is forced to admit the efficacy of the exercise after the first week, when Izaya’s stamina has nearly doubled by any measure she can invent; and after another week Izaya wins freedom for himself both from the tedious exercise sessions in the infirmary and from a required audience for the careful practice swings he is making on the training field. Mikage still comes to observe him, sometimes -- Namie even shows up herself, once, wearing the heaviest coat Izaya has ever seen on her and a frown as if she intends to drag Izaya back to recuperate at the first tremor of his footing -- but whatever they may think of his resumed exercise they can find no fault enough to merit comment, and as the month wears on towards its end Izaya is granted official medical leave to adopt his training as the next step in his healing process. He still lacks a sparring partner -- his swings are too slow for even Mikage to have patience with, and he dislikes the idea of having an audience for the syrup-slow motions that have taken the place of the whip-quick elegance he used to wield so carelessly -- but the training dummies provide target enough for him to aim for, and it’s more the motions themselves he wants to work through, as he teaches his healing body the patterns of grace that he lost to the convalescence that followed the end of the war. It’s slow work, exhausting and difficult and painful on the nights that Izaya wakes up with muscles cramping on the unaccustomed effort he’s forcing them to; but it’s a way to pass the time, a way to fill the ever-increasing daylight hours, and as long as Izaya is on the training field he’s not thinking about the passing days, isn’t thinking about anything at all but the next swing, and the next step, and the next movement following the last in the pattern of a dance he gets better at with every passing hour.

The snow melts, eventually. There’s a bite to the wind, still, a chill in the air like the last dying gasp of winter starting to ease its hold on the world; but Izaya can trust his footing, now, can move without keeping a wary eye out for the slick patches of ice underfoot that could send him right back into Namie’s untender care. His daily habit expands over the boundaries of his initial hour; the warmer it gets the easier it is to linger in the cold of the clear air, the more the effort of his exercise serves to chase off the cool from his skin. By the time the tips of the trees are starting to bud with the suggestion of flowers Izaya can stay outside for the whole of the afternoon, if he chooses; and if he’s cold when he first arrives, he’s invariably carrying his coat over his arm by the time he’s making his way back to the castle. Today is even warmer than usual, as if the onset of spring wishes to make itself not just present but actively noticed; Izaya strips his coat off as soon as he’s finished his warmups to lay it over the edge of the fence railing, and he doesn’t feel the want of it as he continues swinging his practice weapon through the bite of the air as if to cut away the chill before he breathes it into his lungs. The motion is lulling, the rhythm of it a comfortable familiarity; Izaya loses himself to the movement, to the pace of his steps marking out their usual pattern against the training grounds, to the drag of his breathing in his chest and the flex of his shoulders as he moves. He lands a blow against the training dummy, pulls away as if in a retreat, comes back in for another; over and over and over again, repeating his movement as if he intends to write it into his body by excess, as if he never intends to stop. It’s a soothing action, it carries the pleasant ache of effort up his arms even as he feels the flex of his legs serving as proof of his ever-increasing strength; and he continues, as the morning crosses over to noon, as the sun high overhead spills winter-clear illumination down against the shift of his feet and the huff of his breathing. Izaya’s shirt is sticking to the line between his shoulders, he can feel sweat going warm against his hairline; but his footsteps are steady, his swings are certain, and so he continues, letting the physical exertion wipe away any other distractions from his mind to leave him distantly, calmly content.

He hears the footsteps approaching. They come from the far side of the training ground, at the wrong angle for him to glimpse his audience as he moves; but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear the crunch of the gravel against boots, doesn’t mean his ears don’t pick out the weight of determined footfalls from over the rhythmic huff of his own breathing. The steps are too slow for Namie’s efficient pace, too heavy for Mikage’s elegant stride; Haruna doesn’t wear boots even when she ventures outside the castle, and the twins would carry an echo to give one away from the other, however much they may try to fit themselves into the sound of a single pace. It’s none of Izaya’s semi-regular visitors, none of the usual assortment of family and servants that he knows as well as he knows the halls of the castle; but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t recognize that tread. He can feel his shoulders tense with the awareness of it, can feel his heartbeat pick up pace in his chest; but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t pivot to face his audience. He just keeps moving, going through the motions of his practice with his eyes fixed ahead of him and his body moving on autopilot; and he fixes the whole of his attention behind him, just between his shoulderblades, where those footsteps are scuffing closer.

There’s a pause in their pace, a breath of hesitation as the other draws up to the edge of the training grounds; Izaya has a moment to brace himself for a voice, to wonder if it’ll be the sound of his name dragging to shadows that he next hears. But the steps resume after just a moment, drawing closer as their owner crosses over into the edge of the training grounds; Izaya can hear them moving behind him to mark out a path to the far corner of the field. There’s a rattle of metal, the sound of a practice sword drawing free too clear for Izaya to even pretend to miss, but he still doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge his company by so much as the tilt of his head. He continues with what he’s doing, drawing his weapon in clean arcs through the air as those steps draw closer, as his heart pounds faster; and then there’s a scuff from just behind him, the sound of a boot settling into place for a deliberate stance, and Izaya shifts his foot back behind him and pivots as smoothly as that, bringing the whole weight of his body around to follow the draw of his weapon as he turns to face his visitor. His rapier cuts through the air, the narrow line of the blade flashing brilliant in the sun; and rattles to a stop as it runs up against the flat of the upraised sword awaiting him, the heavy, two-handed blade held as easily by its wielder as Izaya manages the rapier. Izaya lifts his gaze from the line of those weapons lying together, raising his attention from the point of metal kissing close to metal to meet the dark gaze locked on his features. They stare at each other for a moment, the both of them gazing into each other’s face without letting their weapons dip; and then Izaya takes a breath, and lifts his chin into haughty self-assurance. “And here I was thinking Numora was left to her own sovereignty.”

Shizuo’s lips press together, his throat works. “She is,” he says. His voice is lower than Izaya remembers it, as if it has gained shadows in the months they have been apart; or maybe that’s just the effect of emotion on his tongue, that is casting his words to such strain. “Those were the terms of the treaty.”

“And yet here you are,” Izaya says. He swings his rapier around Shizuo’s weapon -- slowly, as necessitated by his still-healing muscles, in that dreamlike, dancing motion he has learned -- but Shizuo doesn’t move to parry the action, just lets his sword dip fractionally as Izaya brings his blade down and around to hover just alongside the other’s face. “Prince of the conquering nation trespassing onto Numoran soil. You’re an invading force all your own.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases as he swallows again and shakes his head. “I’m not here as a prince.”

“No?” Izaya says. He lets his weapon dip down and in, tracing out a smooth curve through the air to lay the blunt weight of the blade against Shizuo’s throat, just over the flutter of the heartbeat he can see under the tension of the other’s skin. “Why are you here, then, Boscan?”

Shizuo doesn’t pull away from the cool of the metal skimming against his skin, doesn’t blink under the focus of Izaya’s eyes on him. He just stares, gazing at Izaya’s face for the span of a heartbeat; and then he draws his sword down and away, retreating from even an attempt at defense as he lets it fall to his side. “I come as a messenger from my country.”

“Do you,” Izaya says. The blade in his hand is thin, light enough to show any tremor at his fingers or wrist; it doesn’t so much as flutter against Shizuo’s neck. “And what is the message you bear?”

Shizuo swallows deliberately before he takes a breath slow enough for Izaya to hear the effort fitting underneath the weight of it. “It’s a diplomatic proposal,” he says. “An offer of an alliance between Boscan and Numora.”

Izaya takes a careful breath of the cool air around him. “An alliance,” he repeats, as careful with the words as if they’re made of glass. “What kind of alliance?”

Shizuo’s throat works. “Marriage.” There’s a pause, a breath of time for that one word to hang in the air between them; and then Shizuo shifts, his boots scuffing against the dirt as he pulls his foot back to brace his toes so he can carefully lower his weight.

“Which makes me not a messenger,” he says, “so much as a petitioner.” He reaches out to touch a hand to the ground as he lowers himself to his knees before Izaya; Izaya’s attention follows him as he lets the edge of his rapier trail against Shizuo’s neck as the other moves. Shizuo’s knees brace against the ground before him, Shizuo reaches out to lay the practice sword flat across the ground at Izaya’s feet; but he doesn’t look down, doesn’t break the fixed eye contact he has with the other as he rocks back over his heels to settle himself on his knees in front of Izaya.

“Your Highness,” Shizuo says; and then his lashes flutter, his throat works. “Izaya.” Izaya watches Shizuo take a breath, watches his chin lift as he steadies himself for the weight of the words at his lips. “I’ve come to ask you to grant me the favor of your hand in marriage.”

Izaya gazes at Shizuo: feeling his heart pounding in his chest, feeling his breathing catching to heat at his lips. His fingers are still steady at the hilt of his rapier; the blade is still ghosting against the line of Shizuo’s throat, pressing glancing friction to the other’s skin. Shizuo is looking up at him, his sword at his feet, his hands at his sides, his heart laid so bare that Izaya can see it in his eyes. He looks as if he’d be ready to wait there forever, as if he’d stay kneeling for as long as Izaya demanded, as long as Izaya wished. Izaya looks, and breathes, and feels; and then he angles his wrist to the side, and he draws his blade out and away from Shizuo’s skin.

“Humility doesn’t suit you,” Izaya says, and he lifts his free hand from his side to extend it to Shizuo before him. “Stand up, Shizuo.” Shizuo’s attention flickers to Izaya’s fingers, his eyes widening before he glances back up to the other before him; when he lifts his hand to close around the other’s it’s so slowly the motion alone speaks to his understanding of the gesture. Izaya’s skin prickles with heat, his cheeks flush with a tinge of color; but when he speaks his tone is as cool as the air around them, as level as he held the line of his rapier for the rush of Shizuo’s words. “I don’t know about Boscan, but in Numora we don’t expect this kind of subservience from consorts of the royal family.”

Shizuo’s fingers tighten against Izaya’s hand; he stands all at once, coupling the motion with a half-step forward to clear the weight of the practice sword at Izaya’s feet and close with the other. “Is that--” he starts; his hand comes up, his fingers reach to skim against Izaya’s hair, trailing against the strands like he’s not wholly certain his touch will be welcome. “Are you saying yes?”

Izaya lifts his chin to toss his hair back from his face. “I thought I told you before,” he says with haughty unconcern. “I am known for my benevolence.”

Shizuo’s lips curve onto a smile, his breath spills from him in a huff. His hand slides in against Izaya’s hair to press close against the line of the other’s neck. “Your generosity is breathtaking.”

“That’s not the only thing,” Izaya says; and he lets his rapier fall to the ground so he can reach out to press his palm to Shizuo’s chest and curl his fingers in against the weight of the other’s coat. “I trust I don’t have to order you, this time?”

Shizuo’s laugh is open, it rushes warm over Izaya’s mouth before him; but he’s moving as quickly as he gives it voice to duck in and over Izaya and press the weight of his answer against the other’s mouth. Izaya shuts his eyes, and tightens his fingers in Shizuo’s, and reaches up to curl his fingers against the back of the other’s neck to pull him in closer as Shizuo closes the last of the gap between them and settles his fingers tighter into Izaya’s hair.

They stand there together for some time; but Izaya’s legs don’t tremble any more than Shizuo’s grip on his hand does.


	20. Peace

“Finally,” Izaya sighs as the weight of the door to the banquet hall swings shut behind him to block off the sound of the celebration still resounding from within. “I thought they were going to keep us there all day.”

“It couldn’t have been all that bad,” Shizuo protests, but gently, without any edge to the words, and without pulling away from where Izaya’s arm is looped through his own. “I would have thought you would have loved wearing a crown in front of an entire country.”

“It’s hardly an entire country,” Izaya says haughtily. “Boscan isn’t  _that_  small, to fit the entire population in one banquet hall. Even I know that. Are you sure you’re really fit to be the official heir to the throne?”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “I don’t know,” he says, still with more warmth than edge to his voice. “It doesn’t make much of a difference what I think at this point, does it?”

Izaya glances sideways. Shizuo’s crown is relatively restrained, all things considered; especially for something bearing as much official weight as a formal coronation, the simplicity of the polished gold and the pattern marking out its perimeter is so understated as to be a commentary in itself. Izaya suspects it’s the weight of it that’s more the point, where the burden of the gold is pressing down against the smooth of Shizuo’s hair, combed back and pulled into a tie at the back of his neck in the hour before the start of the ceremony proper. Izaya had watched that process from his perch at the corner of the bed, offering entertainment by way of biting commentary --  _he_  dressed first, in consideration of his ability to go more than five minutes without rumpling his hair out of order -- but all his best attempts at distraction did nothing to strip Shizuo of the weight of royal bearing that carried him through the formality they have just concluded. Izaya is more grateful than he is going to admit that the words of that ceremony were more on Shizuo’s tongue than his own; he isn’t sure he could manage more than a breath of clear speech with Shizuo radiating such dignified power alongside him. But the ceremony is over now, concluded with the king’s formal declaration of Shizuo as official heir to the throne; and Izaya can once again lay claim to his usual monopoly of the other’s attention.

“I suppose not,” he says now, letting the words fall with airy unconcern as he turns to look down the corridor through which Shizuo is leading him. “Now that my cunning plan to lay claim to the Boscan throne as well as Numoran has borne fruit, your own intentions are of very little concern.”

“Ah,” Shizuo says. “Which cunning plan is this, then, exactly?”

“You’ve been living it,” Izaya tells him, dipping his chin to cast his gaze up through his lashes at Shizuo next to him. Shizuo is watching Izaya rather than the path they are taking through the palace halls; there’s a smile curving at the corners of his mouth, something soft and warm with familiarity rather than alarm. It would be tender if they were within the walls of their bedroom; with the weight of the crown cradling his temples and the fall of his embroidered coat around his shoulders, it looks indulgent, as if he holds the whole of the world in his hands and is ready to offer them for Izaya at the breath of a word. Izaya’s smile slips wider before he dips his lashes to hide his eyes from Shizuo’s focused attention. “This is the plot where I seduce my way into your bed before granting you my hand in marriage and ultimately laying claim to rule of Numora’s rival country.” He lifts his head to toss his hair back from his face. “I think it’s moving along quite well, so far.”

“Reasonably so,” Shizuo agrees, still sounding so warm the words hum like laughter in his throat. “Though technically it’s only Numora you’re ruler of. You’re still prince consort here.”

Izaya waves his hand through the air to dismiss this complaint. “A trifling detail,” he says. “I’ve thoroughly ensnared the future king in my wiles, I have it on good authority he’ll give me anything I require. I think I might prefer working from the shadows in any case.” He lifts his hand to his hair to touch against the band of gold lying against it. “And I have a crown, which is the important part anyway.”

“You do,” Shizuo agrees. “And it looks very nice on you.”

“You didn’t have to have a new one made for me,” Izaya tells him. “I would have worn a tiara in its place.” He tips his head to smile up at Shizuo again. “Maybe that would have been better, even.”

Shizuo huffs another laugh. “This is fine,” he says, and reaches out to brush his fingers against the weight of the circlet atop Izaya’s hair. His touch is delicate, more to feel out the curve of the metal than any attempt to dislodge it, but Izaya can still feel the force of it run down the whole of his spine. “Royalty suits you.”

“Are you trying to flatter your way into my bed?” Izaya asks. “Really, Your Highness, I thought Boscans were supposed to be a bit more discreet than that. Or is it just you that is so lacking in subtlety?”

“I’m just complimenting you,” Shizuo tells him. “Are Numorans so entrenched in scheming you fail to recognize simple honesty when you see it?”

“I don’t know,” Izaya says. “Maybe I just haven’t seen enough of your  _honesty_  to be sure yet.”

Shizuo snorts. “Is that really the best you can come up with?”

“It’s been a long day,” Izaya tells him. “I’m working with what you’re giving me. Would you prefer something a little more direct?” He tightens his hold on Shizuo’s arm, leaning hard against the support the other offers as he braces his hand against Shizuo’s shoulder and rises up onto his toes to press his lips just against the curve of the other’s ear. “If you take me back to our quarters I’ll wear nothing but a crown for the rest of the night.”

Shizuo’s breath huffs out of him, a giveaway to his reaction even before he tips his head in to meet Izaya’s. “I thought you already had everything you wanted from me.”

“Numorans are hardly so easily satisfied,” Izaya tells him. Shizuo isn’t paying any attention at all anymore to where they’re going; Izaya wonders vaguely if they aren’t going to run straight into a wall, but he can’t pull his attention away from Shizuo’s gaze long enough to look. “You’re going to have to put in more effort than that to win surrender from me, Boscan.”

“You’re awfully casual in your speech,” Shizuo says. “I’m the crown prince of the realm, I’ll have you know. And your liege, specifically.”

“Only so long as we’re within these borders,” Izaya reminds him. “Once we return to Numora you’ll be  _my_  consort once again.” He pauses just long enough to make the hesitation crystal-clear to them both. “Your Highness.”

Shizuo grimaces. “It feels wrong to have you call me by my title.”

“And yet you object to affectionate insults,” Izaya reminds him. “What does Your Majesty wish of his humble servant?”

“Just my name,” Shizuo tells him, and ducks in close to catch Izaya’s mouth with his. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his attention gives way for a moment; Shizuo only lingers for the span of a heartbeat, but it’s enough to flush Izaya’s mouth to heat and weight his eyelashes until he has to struggle to lift them again as Shizuo pulls back. “Just call me by my name, Izaya.”

“Mm,” Izaya purrs. “You Boscans might be onto something with this casual informality, Shizuo.”

“We have a lot of good ideas,” Shizuo tells him. “Your countrymen could learn something from us, you know.”

“Indeed,” Izaya says. “I know I learn something new from you every night.” He flashes a smile at Shizuo, something brief and bright enough that he can see Shizuo’s expression go slack with warmth, can see the other’s focus dip down to track the curve of his lips again before he drops his hand from Shizuo’s shoulder and slips his arm free of the other’s hold so he can move forward by a span of darting steps before pivoting to look back at Shizuo behind him. “What are you going to offer me this evening?”

Shizuo’s eyebrow raises. “Come back here and I’ll show you.”

“Is that a threat?” Izaya asks as he backs towards the door behind him without turning to look at it. “I thought our marriage was meant to put an end to the hostilities.”

“It’s not a threat,” Shizuo says, and takes a step forward without looking away from Izaya’s face. “It’s a promise.”

Izaya’s mouth curves onto a smile too warm in his chest for him to even try to hold back. “Good,” he says, and he pushes the door next to him open as he steps sideways to cross the threshold. “Come and keep the terms of our arrangement, Boscan.” Shizuo’s expression gives way to a grin, the edge of it coupled with a huffing laugh that Izaya can’t help but echo; and then he steps forward, and Izaya steps back, crossing fully into the bedroom as he lifts his head in anticipation of the reach of Shizuo’s hands. His hold on the door gives way, his fingers sliding free as he backs into the glow of the room behind him, but Shizuo is stepping forward without waiting for the door to swing shut. He clears the edge of it before it even starts to move as he steps fully into the bedroom in pursuit of Izaya, and Izaya is grinning as quickly as Shizuo’s hands catch at either side of his face to brace him still against the other’s approach.

“You Numorans are always so hard to pin down,” Shizuo mock-growls in the back of his throat as his hand slides down to brace against the back of Izaya’s neck, as his fingers push up into the fall of the other’s hair. Behind him the door swings shut, the weight of its closing solid enough that Izaya can feel it with all the force of a promise.

“And yet you seem to have laid hands on me,” Izaya purrs up at him. “What will you do with me now?”

“This,” Shizuo says; and he’s ducking in at once, almost while the word is still on his lips, to press his mouth close against the part of Izaya’s lips. Izaya is ready for him, is lifting his hands even before the warmth of the contact presses against his mouth; his fingers catch at the smooth line of Shizuo’s hair, his lips part in easy encouragement for the other’s touch. Shizuo makes a low sound at the back of his throat and licks into Izaya’s mouth, the motion rough with force like he’s acting on impulse, as if the taste of the other’s skin is sweet enough to override his self-restraint; and Izaya lets him, arching back to tip himself against the support of Shizuo’s hands on him as his fingers slide in to rumple against the smooth of the other’s hair and settle against the back of Shizuo’s neck. His balance shifts, angling back precariously over the set of his feet; but Shizuo’s is unflinching, and Izaya is willing enough to give himself over to that unwavering support against him.

“So it’s to be a display of force,” Izaya manages somewhat breathlessly, when Shizuo has drawn back to kiss against the corner of his mouth and along the line of his jaw. He tips his head to the side, letting the weight of his head draw the motion slack with grace. “I should have expected as much. I suppose you don’t need subtlety anymore, now that you bear the crown?”

“No,” Shizuo says, taking the implication of Izaya’s tipped head to kiss against the curve of the other’s throat and down over the flutter of his pulse. Izaya lets his lashes dip, lets his vision haze to the shadows of appreciation as his lips part on a huff of heat. “That’s what I have you for.”

“You’ll hand over rule of both kingdoms then,” Izaya says. Shizuo’s hand drops from Izaya’s hair and down, fingers spreading wide to span against the other’s hip and brace him tight against the resistance of Shizuo’s body; Izaya gives way to that too, letting the grace of his motion arch him in against the other without hesitation. “You lack ambition, my dear.”

“And you have enough for the both of us,” Shizuo says against the line of Izaya’s neck, where the words run hot against the other’s collar to spill over the bare skin beneath. Izaya’s fingers tighten against Shizuo’s hair, his hold laying claim to the smooth elegance of the other’s appearance. “Maybe I should just hand my crown over to you right now and be done with it.”

“It might be faster,” Izaya agrees. He draws his fingers up through Shizuo’s hair, dragging it free of its tidiness as he goes before catching just under the weight of the other’s crown so he can draw it free. Shizuo huffs a laugh against his neck and ducks his head in surrender to offer the weight of it to Izaya’s hold as the other pulls up and away. Izaya reaches to slide the circlet against his own hair free, drawing it loose to dangle around one finger as he sets the weight of Shizuo’s crown against his head with a deliberately offhand air; when Shizuo draws back to look down at him Izaya meets him with a tilt of his head and a curve of his lips to go with the display he’s making of himself. “How do I look, Shizuo?”

He’s expecting Shizuo to roll his eyes at the show Izaya is putting on, or maybe to laugh with the burst of startling affection that comes free of his control, sometimes. He’s not expecting the way Shizuo’s expression steadies with sincerity, or the way Shizuo’s gaze drags up to linger against the weight of the crown balanced somewhat precariously against Izaya’s head, or the lift of Shizuo’s hand as he reaches up to touch against the shine of it. Izaya’s own smile eases, giving way to focus of his own enough to match Shizuo’s; and then Shizuo’s hand drops from the crown to Izaya’s neck, just over the curve of his shoulder, and the other’s attention flickers down to meet Izaya’s gaze, and Shizuo is ducking in over him to cast Izaya into his shadow.

“Like royalty,” Shizuo says, and he’s punctuating with another kiss, a slow, lingering one this time, like he’s memorizing the familiar give of Izaya’s mouth under his. Izaya is left to stand still where he is, caught off-guard and off-balance by the intent sincerity of Shizuo’s words; he’s still dazed by their force when Shizuo’s touch catches at the inside of his arm to trail down to his wrist and catch at the band of gold in Izaya’s fingers.

“You said you’d wear nothing but that,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s mouth as he pulls the weight of the crown free of the other’s hold and reaches to set it aside atop the table alongside the door. “You still seem to be burdened by an excess of clothing, though.”

Izaya presses his lips together for a moment to steady out the pace of his heart beating in his chest and the flush of heat rising over his skin; and then he lifts his chin, and spreads his arms at his sides, and casts the full shadow of his gaze onto Shizuo.

“So I am,” he says in tones of lofty self-assurance. “You may assist me in remedying this situation, if you wish.”

Shizuo could protest that too, tone or words or implication any part. But Izaya knows he won’t, and he’s not surprised, this time, when Shizuo’s gaze drops down to the line of Izaya’s coat buttoned up to pristine elegance over his chest with as much attention as if he intends to draw it loose by force of will instead of the use of his hands. It’s only for a moment, that appreciative slide of Shizuo’s gaze pressing over him, and then Shizuo is lifting his hands to the collar of Izaya’s coat, and pushing against the embroidered detail of the buttons, and Izaya lets his hands fall and lifts his chin to give Shizuo a better angle on the task of disrobing him to which he is now set. The tension of the coat around him eases, some measure of the clothing weighting against him giving way as Shizuo’s fingers work down the front of his coat to slide buttons loose of the fabric; when Shizuo reaches the bottom Izaya is already rocking his shoulders back to allow slack enough for Shizuo to slide the coat back and off him. Shizuo draws the weight of the fabric free, folding it over itself before he tosses it across the table alongside Izaya’s official crown, and then he’s coming back in to reach for the laces of the silk shirt Izaya was wearing under the coat itself. Izaya lifts his chin for this at well -- the tie of the trailing ends sits close against his neck, it’s hard to reach without the assistance -- but he’s reaching out too, stretching to touch his fingers to the line of Shizuo’s shoulders and trail over the pattern of gold thread laid into the richly dyed fabric that forms the other’s coat.

“I hadn’t thought,” he says, still in the haughtiest tone he can manage as Shizuo unfastens the collar of his shirt and begins to draw the laces free to leave the white silk to fall open across Izaya’s collarbones and down the line of his chest. “But this is leaving you a bit overdressed in comparison to your ruler, isn’t it?”

Shizuo casts his gaze up from the work he’s doing on Izaya’s shirtfront; his eyes look darker in the shadow of his lashes. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course it is,” Izaya says. “I can hardly have my subject in better attire than myself.” He curls his fingers just inside the edge of Shizuo’s coat to threaten pressure against the button holding the weight of it shut. “I’ll just have to remedy the situation myself, I’m afraid.”

“Be my guest,” Shizuo says, and he’s leaning in to press his forehead to Izaya’s and huff a breath just against the other’s mouth. “I am your obedient servant.”

“Of course you are,” Izaya says; and then he lifts his head to press his mouth to Shizuo’s to stifle the possibility of a response, and he sets himself to work unfastening the elegant clothes that are so hiding Shizuo’s body. Shizuo has a head start on him -- Izaya’s shirt is open around his shoulders and falling loose of his pants, it would be a matter of seconds to tug the fall of it up and over his head -- but he doesn’t seem in any hurry to maintain his lead, now that he has the other’s shirt so disheveled. He stays as he is, pressing close to Izaya and with his fingers slipping up to wander under the fall of the other’s shirt by touch rather than by sight, until Izaya can feel the strain of his breathing pressing close against Shizuo’s palms trailing up from the dip of his waist to the shift of his inhales. He’s working efficiently for his part, stripping Shizuo’s buttons free of their buttonholes as quickly as he can move his fingers around the distraction of the other’s lips dragging warm and languid-slow over his own, but even when Izaya reaches up to push at the shoulders of Shizuo’s coat Shizuo only lets him go with one hand, shrugging the burden of his clothing off first one arm and then the other to keep the weight of his touch lingering on Izaya’s skin. Izaya’s heart is pounding in his chest, beating so hard he’s sure Shizuo will be able to hear it even before the other’s palm slides up to press against the rhythm of it like he’s trying to catch the pattern; but he has Shizuo’s coat off, and that leaves him with options enough to occupy himself. There’s the fall of white silk, of course, the elegance of Shizuo’s shirt a perfect match for Izaya’s own; but Izaya forgoes bothering with the laces of the collar, forgoes the shirt entirely in favor of reaching down to slide his fingers into the ties of Shizuo’s pants instead. The laces are carefully knotted and tucked back into the waistband to keep them out of sight, but Izaya doesn’t need to see them to seek them out with unerring precision, and by the time Shizuo is pulling away from his mouth to gasp for a breath Izaya is tugging the knots free one-handed, catching his fingers into the loops of the laces to unravel the tension keeping his touch from the heat of Shizuo’s bare skin.

“Izaya,” Shizuo manages, his voice dipping into that low tone that might sound like a growl in other circumstances, that sounds like nothing so much as heat at the moment. “You…”

“Yes?” Izaya says. “Is there something you wished to request from me?” He draws open the laces under his fingers and leaves them to fall free so he can reach up instead and fit his fingers into the top edge of Shizuo’s pants, pushing hard to urge them down and inside the tension of the fabric.

“I’m always willing to listen to the pleas of my subjects,” Izaya says. “I can be quite generous with my favors, when it suits me.” His wrist presses to the inside of Shizuo’s waistband, his fingers slide sideways and down; and run up against the heat he was looking for, as his fingertips skim against the head of Shizuo’s cock. The other’s not entirely hard yet -- unfastening his pants would have been far more of a challenge if he had been -- but he’s rising fast, Izaya can feel the heat swelling to resistance under his fingers as clearly as he can hear the huff of Shizuo’s breath rushing in the back of his throat.

“So,” Izaya says, purring over the words as his fingers reach to slide in against Shizuo’s cock and stroke the other to the promise of full hardness. “What’s it to be, Shizuo?”

Shizuo’s hips jerk forward, his legs flexing hard enough to push the other’s hand back by an inch before Izaya can catch himself enough to resist, to catch and hold against the heat of Shizuo’s cock sliding over his palm instead of being urged backwards by the motion. When Shizuo gasps a breath at Izaya’s mouth Izaya can taste the heat of it on his tongue, can almost feel the shadows in Shizuo’s blood spilling dark and sweet against the rasp of his own breathing in the back of his throat.

“You,” Shizuo says; brief and direct and unmistakable, with no hesitation on the words. His hips move forward again; this time the motion is deliberate, elegant and weighty enough to slide his cock in a deliberate stroke against the curve of Izaya’s palm on him. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his own cock twitches heat against the tension of his remaining clothes. “I want you.”

“You have aspirations to power?” Izaya manages. “Lover to a prince, is that what you hope to become?”

Shizuo shakes his head in sharp refusal of this suggestion. “No,” he says; and he steps forward, the motion urging Izaya to stumble backwards as surely as the hand still pressing hard against his chest is pushing him into a retreat. “Just you, Izaya.” Izaya’s breath catches, his teasing giving way to the rush of warmth that runs through him in answer to Shizuo’s words; and Shizuo is reaching for Izaya’s hair and catching his hand against the back of the other’s head to hold him still for the weight of Shizuo’s mouth against his before Izaya can collect himself back into coherency. Shizuo’s hand against Izaya’s chest drops to the other’s hip, his fingers catch to brace Izaya steady, and when he walks them back Izaya goes without hesitating in following the demand of Shizuo’s hold on him. He catches against the back of Shizuo’s neck with his free hand, more to keep the other’s mouth pressing close against his than in any attempt to stop their movement, and he doesn’t ease the slide of his fingers dragging over Shizuo’s length flushing full against his touch, now. His own cock is pulling tight at the front of his pants, pressing to the fabric as if urging for freedom; but Shizuo is still pushing him back, still urging him over the floor, and Izaya is falling back as quickly as Shizuo approaches. His heart is pounding, his breath is catching, his cock is aching; and then his knees hit something soft, his balance tips in and back, and Izaya lets himself fall into Shizuo’s hold as he leans backwards over the bed behind him. His hand tightens against Shizuo’s neck, Shizuo’s grip on him fixes him steady, and when he goes back down over the sheets it’s deliberately, as much as if Shizuo is laying him out across the blankets intentionally as the uncontrolled fall Izaya half-expected. There’s no pulling away, no indication of Shizuo drawing back; he just follows Izaya down, leaning in and over the bed, until by the time Izaya is sprawling across the sheets he has Shizuo’s weight pressing close against his, as if the other intends to hold him where he lies by the simple application of his body against Izaya’s. Shizuo keeps them there for a moment, lingering in the slide of his mouth over Izaya’s and the slow work of his tongue pressing to the inside of the other’s lips; until Izaya tightens his fingers against Shizuo’s cock in his grip, and draws up in a pull of deliberate force, and Shizuo groans hot against the inside of his mouth and breaks away to gasp for air over Izaya’s lips.

“You handle yourself well,” Izaya manages, aware that his voice is breaking open from his assumed teasing into throaty heat but not making any attempt to rein it back. “One would almost think you were born to rule.” He drags his thumb in over the head of Shizuo’s cock, pulling the wet in and over his skin as his grin gives way, as the arousal sweeping through his body steals his breath and his control at once. His hips rock up, his body flexing to suggestion under Shizuo’s; Shizuo groans far in the back of his throat, the sound answering and matching the huff at Izaya’s lips as his whole body thrums with heat enough to more than answer Shizuo’s own. Izaya’s fingers tighten against the back of Shizuo’s neck, his throat strains with want, and when he speaks again there’s no trace of teasing on his voice any more than there is space for anything but sincerity in his thoughts.

“Shizuo,” Izaya groans. “ _Touch_  me.” He doesn’t know what the tone is on his lips: part demand, part regal command, part a desperate plea; but it doesn’t matter anyway, because Shizuo is answering, moving as quickly as Izaya gives voice to his name. His hand at Izaya’s hip eases, his touch draws in and across, and when his fingers press to the front of Izaya’s pants Izaya’s lashes flutter without his intention, his head tipping back in answer as clear to understand as the moan in his throat, as the tilt of his hips bucking up to meet Shizuo’s touch. Shizuo catches a breath over him, sounding like he’s bracing himself for more, and then he presses in again, and Izaya is caught in a tremor of heat that ripples through the whole of his body in answer. His fingers flex against Shizuo’s cock, his grip tightening to a fist around the hard heat of the other’s length, but Shizuo’s fingers are pressing in against him too, Izaya can feel the force of the other’s touch working over him as Shizuo palms him through the fabric of his pants. It feels good, Izaya’s whole body is resonating in answer to the friction of Shizuo’s touch against him; but he wants more, wants to be closer still than he is, wants the solid heat of Shizuo’s cock pushing in against him to fit the shape of Shizuo’s pleasure and his own into a single incandescent whole. His fingers drag over Shizuo’s cock, his wrist flexes to twist the motion to deliberate heat, and when Shizuo gasps over him Izaya’s fingers catch to make a fist of the other’s hair to hold him where he is.

“More,” he says, and it is a command now, there’s no room for hesitation in the back of his throat. “I want more.”

Shizuo ducks his head in a nod, the motion unhesitating even if his breathing is falling to panting. “I know,” he says; and then he lifts his head, and draws his hand away so he can rock up onto his elbow and reach for the bottle of oil at the far side of the bed. Izaya lets his hold on Shizuo’s cock go so he can slide his fingers up and out of the other’s pants; it’s a loss, but he needs both hands to untie the laces of his pants as quickly as he can. The laces come open, with rather more force than he used with Shizuo’s, and Izaya braces his elbows against the bed to rock himself backwards so he can slide out from under the weight of Shizuo over him and center himself against the middle of the bed as he sits up to strip his pants down and off his legs. He kicks his boots off and over the edge of the mattress, letting them fall without concern for where they end up, and his pants rapidly follow the same path; Shizuo’s laid claim to the bottle and is getting to his feet at the edge of the bed so he can toe his own boots off while he pushes a hand through his hair to watch what he’s doing. Izaya leaves his clothes where they lie to come back over the bed, covered in nothing but the unlaced weight of his shirt hanging open around his neck and clinging to his shoulders; he reaches for Shizuo’s shirt while the other is still struggling with his second boot, curling his fingers to fists in the fabric so he can drag it up and loose of the untied waistband of Shizuo’s pants. Shizuo ducks his head as Izaya pulls his shirt up, submitting to the suggestion of the other’s movement without waiting for words, and Izaya tosses the weight of Shizuo’s shirt aside as fast as he pulls it free. Shizuo kicks his second boot off, and turns back in towards Izaya kneeling at the edge of the bed, and when Izaya reaches to press his hand close against Shizuo’s waist Shizuo is lifting his own as quickly to catch against Izaya’s hair and smooth the weight of it back behind the curve of the other’s ear. Izaya tips his head up in expectation of more, anticipation and invitation weighting his lips in equal measure, and this time it’s his hold that steadies Shizuo as the other comes up onto the bed to kneel against the sheets alongside him. Shizuo’s hand slides down to cradle the side of Izaya’s neck, his thumb drags in and over the other’s pulse like he’s feeling out the pattern of it; and Izaya is reaching for Shizuo’s other hand to take the bottle of oil from him before he lets his hold on Shizuo’s hip go to uncap the container in his grasp.

Shizuo doesn’t pull away from Izaya’s mouth, doesn’t shift his hand bracing the other in place against the gentle weight of his mouth claiming kisses from Izaya’s lips; but when Izaya gets the bottle open Shizuo already has his free hand turned up to offer his fingers for the wet of the oil to spill across them. Izaya breaks away from Shizuo’s mouth for a moment, blinking hard to clear his vision so he can pour liquid in and over the other’s hand; Shizuo just lingers close, pressing his mouth to Izaya’s forehead, cheek, the corner of his eye, still with that same slowness like he’s appreciating the simple pleasure of the contact itself. Izaya replaces the lid on the bottle and lets it fall to the blankets as he reaches back out to steady his hand at the back of Shizuo’s neck before touching his fingers to the undone front of the other’s pants; but Shizuo is moving without hesitating, stretching out to fit his fingers in between the line of Izaya’s thighs before Izaya has even replaced his hold. Izaya slides his knees open for the contact, giving way to Shizuo’s touch without waiting to be asked, and then he tips his head in, pulling away from the heat of Shizuo’s lips to brace his forehead against the other’s bare shoulder as he shuts his eyes in anticipation of that oil-slick touch. Shizuo’s hand slides up, the heat of the other’s palm skimming against the weight of Izaya’s balls and twitching a flush of heat against his cock; and then fingers draw against Izaya’s entrance, oil slips wet across his skin, and Izaya shudders against Shizuo’s shoulder as his hand flexes tight against the other’s neck. His thighs flex in anticipation, his body draws taut against Shizuo’s touch, and Shizuo turns his head, and sighs warm against Izaya’s hair, and pushes up and into the other with one wet finger. The motion is sure, granted certainty by well-gained experience, and Izaya can feel himself giving way to the force as the slick pressure at his entrance thrusts up and into the heat within him. He clenches against Shizuo’s finger, his body tensing with too much instinct for him to resist, but his arm is sliding to loop around Shizuo’s shoulders, and his breath is spilling hot over the other’s skin, and Shizuo is continuing without waiting to work his touch up farther into Izaya before him.

The friction spills out into Izaya’s blood, rushing into him from within the tension of his body with every shift of Shizuo’s touch; he gasps a breath and angles his wrist to slide his fingers down into the front of Shizuo’s pants. His palm meets hot resistance, his fingers curl in to cradle the length of Shizuo’s flushed cock against his hold, and when Shizuo draws back for another thrust Izaya matches him, sliding his hand up and back down to echo Shizuo’s movement into him with his own pressure against the other’s length. Shizuo groans heat, his hips buck forward as his finger slides deep, and Izaya gasps a breath and keeps going, the both of them urging each other to greater want in time with their own sensation. It’s dizzying to feel, like being caught up in some overwhelming wave, until Izaya doesn’t know whose arousal it is straining in his chest, can’t tell which of them is leading their joint motion. It’s the two of them together, Shizuo’s touch working him open as quickly as Izaya draws heat up into Shizuo’s cock under his palm, until Izaya is reaching to push Shizuo’s pants down and loose of his hips with his free hand at the same time Shizuo is dropping his to brace at Izaya’s waist while he draws his touch back to make an offering of two fingers instead of one. Izaya relaxes to the pressure at once, feeling more as if he’s welcoming the tension inside him than fighting it; under his touch Shizuo’s pants slide down the other’s thighs to leave bare the thick-flushed heat of his cock. Izaya angles his head down and opens his eyes to watch his fingers curl around the weight of Shizuo’s shaft, to watch the flex in his wrist as he draws up and over the other’s length, and in answer Shizuo huffs a hard exhale and pushes up into him with force enough to slide the full length of his fingers into Izaya at once. Izaya tremors with the motion, his cock twitches against the loose hem of his shirt; and he keeps moving, urging Shizuo’s motions on to greater speed with the draw of his fingers pressing close against the length of Shizuo’s cock heavy in his hold. It’s intoxicating to watch, to see the shift and flush of Shizuo’s body answering Izaya’s touch with arousal, to feel him swelling to solid heat against Izaya’s palm; and Izaya can feel himself easing in answer, as the heat of his body opens him around the slide and thrust of Shizuo’s fingers inside him. He’s rocking himself back, trying to take Shizuo farther into him, or just to urge the other on to greater speed, and Shizuo is answering him in kind, moving more quickly even as his thighs flex visibly with the desire to buck forward for more and as his breath catches against Izaya’s shoulder. Izaya is panting for air, he can hear the strain at the back of his throat shifting and catching with every stroke of Shizuo’s touch inside him; and then Shizuo’s fingers press deep, the friction flares a burn through the whole of Izaya’s body, and Izaya is moaning and clenching down around Shizuo’s fingers as his whole body goes tight with sensation. Shizuo quivers against him, huffing a breath of desperate want against Izaya’s shoulder; and then he’s moving without waiting to be told, sliding his fingers back and out of Izaya’s body while Izaya is still shaking with the force of the pleasure that rippled through him. Shizuo’s hands catch at Izaya’s hips, his knee slides forward as his weight tips in, and Izaya is toppling backwards at once, his balance giving way to send him sprawling over the bed behind him. He gives up his hold on Shizuo’s cock to grab at the other’s shoulder instead, to hold them close as much as to brace himself, but Shizuo doesn’t need the encouragement; he’s leaning in over Izaya as fast as the other falls, sliding in to fit himself between the other’s knees even as he’s struggling free of his undone pants.

“Izaya,” Shizuo groans, and that shouldn’t be enough for coherency but his tone makes a novel of the other’s name, it weights the syllables with want and love and anticipation heavy enough to taste hanging in the air. He kicks his pants free to fall to the side of the bed, or over the edge, Izaya isn’t paying enough attention to notice, because Shizuo’s hands are pressing down his thighs to catch under his knees and urge them apart, and his own are sliding up to tangle into the half-loose weight of Shizuo’s tied-back hair. Shizuo is gazing down at him, his eyes dark and focused on Izaya’s face like he’s lingering over the familiar details of the other before him; Izaya’s hands are settling into Shizuo’s hair, his arms flexing with involuntary effort to draw the other down and against him. Shizuo’s hand presses under his thigh, Shizuo’s hips tip in and down to fit against Izaya’s under him, and when Izaya arches up against Shizuo’s hold his body presses against the head of Shizuo’s cock as the heat of it urges up and against him. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his body flexes tight for a moment of anticipation; and Shizuo’s hips push forward against him, and Izaya groans to heat as Shizuo’s cock urges in against the give of his body. He’s tensing, he’s quivering, his fingers are tightening to fists in Shizuo’s hair; and inside him he can feel the resistance of Shizuo’s cock pressing in against him, the heat of it like a fixed point for the tremor of his body beneath the other’s. Shizuo is leaning over him, one hand bracing hard against the sheets and the other gripping tight against Izaya’s knee as he rocks forward; Izaya gasps a breath, and blinks hard, and brings himself into focus on Shizuo above him as the other’s cock settles inside his body. Shizuo’s lips part on a gasp of relief, his hand at Izaya’s knee eases; and then he’s looking up to meet the other’s gaze, to see the way Izaya is looking at him. His eyes are very dark, his mouth is soft and red with the print of Izaya’s lips and Izaya’s skin against it; but he still manages a smile, as sincere as his smiles always are, and Izaya knows what he’s going to say before he says it.

“I love you, Izaya,” Shizuo tells him; and then he’s reaching up to fit his fingers into Izaya’s hair, cradling the other’s head just under the weight of the crown still heavy and lopsided against his hair, and when he draws back for another thrust it’s in time with his mouth settling against Izaya’s, with his lips fitting close to the other’s as if he intends to catch the sound of Izaya’s reaction against his tongue and swallow it back to his own arousal. Izaya gives it up without hesitation, parting his lips to make an offering of the heat in his throat as he licks against Shizuo’s mouth, and Shizuo surrenders to that as easily to let Izaya taste against the wet heat of his tongue while he’s working into the ready give of the other’s body beneath his. Izaya braces himself against Shizuo -- his fingers in Shizuo’s hair, his thighs against Shizuo’s hips -- and he lets the rhythm sweep over him, lets the movement of Shizuo’s cock sliding within him and the taste of Shizuo’s tongue against his urge him out of himself and into something warmer, better, hot with fevered desire and melting into the surrender of satisfaction with every stroke they take. Izaya could lose himself like this, can feel his awareness of himself disintegrating into hazy details more heat and friction than anything else; and then Shizuo pulls away from his mouth to gasp for air, and he’s brought back for a moment by the rhythm of Shizuo’s breathing against his mouth and the flex of the other’s fingers in his hair.

“I love you,” Shizuo says again, gasping as if it’s their first time all over again, as if the words are pulling themselves free of his control and demanding voice right now, in this moment, more vital even than air. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you, Izaya.”

Izaya drags his fingers down through Shizuo’s hair and turns his head in to catch his mouth at the very corner of the other’s lips. “Nothing?” he asks; not because he doubts Shizuo’s words, not because he hasn’t heard this before, but because he has, because he wants to hear the fall of the familiar words against him again. “More than anyone?”

Shizuo ducks his head into a nod. “Yes.”

“More than power,” Izaya prompts, and immediately, almost before Shizuo has gestured the truth of this: “More than the throne, Shizuo, would you give that up for me?”

“Yes,” Shizuo says. “I would have.”

“You would have come to me as a petitioner in truth,” Izaya tells him, winding his fingers in to cradle the back of Shizuo’s head and pull the other down against his shoulder. This close he can feel the effort flexing in Shizuo’s body with every thrust the other takes, can feel the force of each motion like a wave cresting through Shizuo over him to drive deeper into the give of his own body, to surge another rush of heat out into his veins. “To beg for my grace with nothing to offer but yourself.”

“Yes,” Shizuo says, the word hot against Izaya’s shoulder. “And you would have granted it to me.”

Izaya shuts his eyes and tightens his hold on Shizuo’s hair. “I would have,” he agrees; and then he catches a leg around Shizuo’s hip, bracing their bodies together as he pushes up against the give of the bed beneath him. Shizuo’s hand drops to his waist, his fingers sweep in to hold against the curve of Izaya’s back, and he lets himself be urged over by the force of Izaya moving beneath him. Shizuo tips over his shoulder, toppling to fall onto his back across their bed, and Izaya braces a hand at the sheets to push himself up and rock back to lean against the support of Shizuo’s hips beneath him and the press of Shizuo’s cock inside him. The shift changes the angle of the pressure, Izaya can feel the weight of it like an ache inside the give of his body, and he pauses for a moment just to savor the feel of it, to let his body ease to the pressure as he settles himself into place atop Shizuo before him.

“I would have kept you like this,” Izaya says, lifting his chin to angle his head into lofty grandeur as he tips his weight forward to draw up over his knees, to pull up over Shizuo by an inch before rocking back to sink himself slowly onto the heat of the other’s cock. Shizuo’s lashes dip, his lips part, but when his hands come up to push Izaya’s shirt up it’s to press gentle against the other’s hips instead of taking control to guide his motion. Izaya reaches out to touch his fingers to Shizuo’s stomach, ghosting his touch over the strain of the other’s body to steady himself before he rises up for another dragging slide back onto Shizuo’s length. Shizuo’s hips jump, Shizuo’s breath rushes from him, and Izaya lets his whole weight steady over the other’s hips, a smile tugging at his lips as he pins Shizuo in place beneath him. “No clothes, no title.” Another motion, longer this time, so Izaya can have the full length of Shizuo’s cock sinking into him at once; his back arches, his free hand comes up to skim against his aching cock. “Just ready and waiting for me in my bed whenever I had use of you.”

“I see,” Shizuo says. His voice is rough with heat and low in the depths of his chest; his hands at Izaya’s hips shift, trailing up against the curve of the other’s waist towards his chest as he pushes the fall of Izaya’s shirt up to bare the other’s skin for the illumination around them. “I would serve as the prince’s plaything, is that it?”

“The prince’s,” Izaya agrees. “The king’s, eventually.” Shizuo’s hands draw up, his palms bracing to catch the shift of Izaya’s breathing under his hold; Izaya’s shirt is bunched high on his chest now, his whole body is laid bare for Shizuo’s dark gaze. He arches his back, very slightly, just enough to draw Shizuo’s attention to his skin and to work himself around the heat pressing far inside him. “You would make a good royal pet, Shizuo.”

“Generous of you,” Shizuo tells him. His thumbs come out to draw over Izaya’s chest and slide in against the soft of the other’s nipples; Izaya’s hips jerk, his cock twitches against the grip of his hand closing to stroke slow over himself. “Keeping me for your own amusement at your own whims.”

“Of course,” Izaya tells him. His head is tipping back, his lashes are dipping heavy over his eyes; under Shizuo’s touch his nipples are tightening, drawing to tense points with every drag of sparking friction from callused thumbs rubbing against them. “I’d need to have some way to relieve myself from the burden of rule.” He angles his head to the side and lifts his lashes fractionally, just enough to smile shadowed heat at Shizuo beneath him. “You would be reaping the benefits, I think. All the pleasure and none of the responsibility.”

“Nothing to think of but giving you satisfaction?” Shizuo says. “That  _does_  sound tempting.” His thumb flicks over Izaya’s hard nipple to jolt heat into the other’s body; Izaya moans in the back of his throat, rocking back to grind himself farther onto the resistance of Shizuo’s cock inside him as his own twitches heat against the idle stroke of his grip. Shizuo’s thighs flex, Shizuo’s hips pump up against Izaya’s weight atop him; Izaya gasps for air, his knees drawing close against Shizuo under him as his body clenches tight around the other, but Shizuo’s hand is sliding in to brace at his shoulderblades, and Shizuo’s body under his fingers is flexing as the other surges to sit up halfway and reach for Izaya’s hair.

“I don’t think I like the title of pet much, though,” he says, and his fingers catch at the weight of the crown against Izaya’s head, his hold drawing the burden of the gold up and free of the other’s hair before tossing it aside over the soft of the sheets next to them. “Or king, even.”

“No?” Izaya manages, struggling past the strain in his chest but smiling in spite of that as Shizuo’s fingers catch to pull at his shirt. He lets his grip on himself go and lifts his fingers from Shizuo’s stomach, ducking his head as Shizuo tugs his shirt up and over his hair and down his arms to free him from the last of his clothing. Shizuo casts away the shirt as carelessly as he did the crown; when he reaches out again it’s to fit his fingers to the angle of Izaya’s knee and slide up to brace his hand against the straining tension at the other’s thigh. Izaya lifts his arms to drape around Shizuo’s neck, to wind his fingers gently into the yellow of the other’s hair. “Is there any title that doesn’t offend your sensibilities, Shizuo?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says; and his fingers tighten against Izaya’s thigh, his hold bracing close enough for Izaya to feel the smooth line of metal ringing the other’s finger, the familiar weight of it a perfect match for the one caught around his own finger where he’s playing with Shizuo’s hair. “Husband” and he’s lifting his head to catch Izaya’s mouth with his, pressing the other into a kiss without waiting for Izaya’s answer. Izaya submits to it with good grace, letting the weight of his lashes flutter closed over his eyes, and when Shizuo’s hold on him braces him tight he lets himself tip sideways in answer as Shizuo turns to bear them back down to the bed again. Izaya falls to the give of the sheets, borne down by Shizuo’s hold on him, and the hand at his thigh catches him steady to brace him against the force of the other’s hips as Shizuo crests the movement into a thrust up and into him. Izaya moans again, the sound pulled free from his chest by the heavy pressure of Shizuo working inside him, and Shizuo is there to match him, to gasp a breath over Izaya’s lips as they fall to lie alongside each other on the bed.

“I love you,” Shizuo says again, his lips forming the shape of the words against Izaya’s mouth as he catches the other’s thigh against his forearm to brace Izaya still against him. “I can’t believe I’m married to you.”

“You’ve had  _months_ ,” Izaya tells him, with something hovering at the edge of teasing on his lips. “How many more times will you need to fuck me into our marriage bed before you get bored of the idea?”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “Never,” he says, and when he thrusts up Izaya’s back arches to press close against the strain of Shizuo’s lying skin-close to his own. “I’ll never get tired of it.”

Izaya curls his fingers into the disarray he’s made of Shizuo’s hair and tips his head back to meet the other’s heat-dark gaze on him. “Good,” he says. “I wasn’t planning on letting you go.” He lets his other hand drop from Shizuo’s shoulders and down to fit between their bodies, where he can feel the rising tension in Shizuo straining with every rhythmic thrust the other takes into Izaya against him; when he curls his fingers around his cock Shizuo’s the one who groans against Izaya’s mouth and rocks in closer to pin them breathless-close against the whole span of their chests.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says; and his hand slides up, his fingers curving against Izaya’s thigh to cup the shape of the other’s ass as he pulls them in closer, as his arm flexes to grind them as near as they can get. “I want to feel you come.”

“Working on it,” Izaya tells him, only sounding a little bit breathless. “You know you could have worked me over to begin with, if you were in that much of a hurry.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” Shizuo says. His forehead is almost brushing Izaya’s, his lips are all but atop the other’s even as he speaks. “I can wait for you.”

“Can you?” Izaya asks. “You’ll keep fucking me for hours if I ask, will you?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, and his fingers tighten, his hips rock up. “Your wish is my command, Izaya.”

Izaya huffs a breathless laugh, the best he can manage around the heat rising up his spine and trembling in his thighs. “And you say you don’t want to call me king.”

“I don’t,” Shizuo says, his tone utterly calm, the words entirely certain. “It’s not because you’re a king.” His body flexes against Izaya’s, his cock slides through a steady thrust; Izaya quivers with the friction of it, his fingers clench tighter around himself. “It’s not because you’re a prince.” Shizuo’s fingers brace at the back of Izaya’s neck, his palm grips steady against the other; it’s a wall for Izaya to arch against, unflinching resistance to hold him still as his shoulders tense, as his breathing flutters. “It’s because you’re you.”

“Oh,” Izaya says, hearing his voice as if faint and far-off, like he’s hearing his own echo shouting back over some impossible distance. “Shizuo.” He gasps a breath; the motion shifts him against Shizuo’s chest, presses them so close Izaya can feel Shizuo’s heart pounding in time with his own. “I…” and his hand slips, Shizuo thrusts up into him, and Izaya’s eyes go wide, his words stolen from his lips by the force of the tension arching through him.

“ _Shizuo_ ,” he hears himself saying, his voice breaking high and desperate. “I’m going to--” and his cock twitches in his grip, spilling hot over Shizuo’s stomach pressing against his, and Izaya is groaning, heat pulling itself forcibly from his lips as he shudders into orgasm against Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo huffs a breath against Izaya’s mouth, the weight of it satisfied and strained at once, but Izaya can’t focus on the sound any more than he can focus on the grip of Shizuo’s hand holding him still as the other starts to move harder into him, speeding his motion as if he intends to drag Izaya’s pleasure long by force, as if he means to find his own release against the convulsive strain of Izaya’s. Izaya’s vision is hazy, his breathing is catching, he’s moaning over every pulse of heat through him and he doesn’t care; and then Shizuo groans in the back of his throat, and drags Izaya in against him, and Izaya shuts his eyes and gives way to the press of Shizuo’s mouth at the same moment the line of Shizuo’s body against his goes taut with expectation. Shizuo’s mouth goes slack, his lips parting of their own accord as pleasure crests in him; and Izaya grips at Shizuo’s hair, and licks in against his mouth, and catches the low, desperate sound in Shizuo’s throat on his tongue as the other’s body jerks against his and Shizuo’s cock throbs with heat inside him. Izaya keeps Shizuo close, holding to him by his fingers in Shizuo’s hair and the leg he has caught around the other’s hip as Shizuo shudders through the wave of pleasure in him; it’s only once tension has given way to languid contentment that Izaya eases his grip enough to let Shizuo pull free. But Shizuo’s fingers just tighten at his neck, Shizuo’s chin lifts to bring his mouth closer against Izaya’s, and Izaya can feel the corners of his mouth tighten on the beginning of a smile before he gives himself over to the slow, satisfied heat of Shizuo’s mouth pressing the languid pleasure of kisses against his lips.

Izaya doesn’t know how long they linger like that. There’s no need to measure the passage of minutes, no need to fear the arrival of the future; the promise of that is looped around his finger, a gold band of far more worth than the royal crown Shizuo was granted in today’s coronation. So they stay where they are, their bodies pressing close together and fingers wandering over each other’s skin and their lips fitting together, slow and lingering and quick and scattered, coherency giving over to heat until finally Shizuo subsides to lie against the pillows beneath them, his gaze wandering Izaya’s features as a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and his fingers weight at the other’s thigh. Izaya watches Shizuo’s face for a moment, tracking the flutter of pleasure at his lashes as he tugs his fingers through Shizuo’s tangled hair; finally he lets his hand fall still and takes a breath to brace himself to the intent of coherency at last. “I’m glad.”

Shizuo’s lashes flutter, his smile pulls wider. “I should hope so,” he says. “If that didn’t satisfy you I don’t know what else to try.”

Izaya shakes his head to reject this meaning from his words. “No,” he says. “I’m glad I married you.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows raise, his smile eases for a moment; and then comes back, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lifts his hand to touch against Izaya’s cheek. “Is it the crown you’re happy about, this time?” he suggests. “Or the prevention of a future war?” He lifts his head to duck in closer towards Izaya before him. “Are you finally going to admit to liking Boscan sunshine better after all?”

“No,” Izaya says. “It’s because I love you.” He watches Shizuo’s grin flicker, watches it give way to soft-eyed surprise; and then he flashes one of his own, the curve of it bright as the edge of a blade on his lips. “It’s good to know I can still surprise you. That’ll keep you from getting tired of me, when the first allure wears off.”

Shizuo’s hand slides back into Izaya’s hair, his hand at Izaya’s thigh pushes up to cradle against the other’s hip and brace them steady. “It won’t wear off,” he says; and then he leans in for another kiss, and Izaya shuts his eyes and lets Shizuo urge him back to the sheets once more.

It’s hardly a surrender when they’re on the same side.


End file.
